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6reeii Room edition 



Vanity Fair 

By 

W. M. Thackeray 



Illustrated by photographs from life of Mrs, Fiske and 
her company in the play of Becky Sharp, by Byron 
and Sarony, also J 86 illustrations by Author ^ ^ ^ 




New York and Boston ^ ^ 
H. M» Caldwell Company 
dt ^ ^ 'ji ^ Publishers 



1X0 



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40381 



Library of Congress 

Two Copies Received 
AUG 30 1900 

aUg 30 1900 
HRST COPV. 

2M Kufj Oikwiiri to 

ORDER UWSIOti 
SFP 11 1900 



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Copyright, igoo 
By H. M. Caldwell Co. 



Vanity Fair 



CONTENTS. 



I. Chiswick Mall i 

II. In whicli Miss Sharp and Miss Sedley prepare to open 

the Campaign 9 

III. Rebecca is in Presence of the Enemy 19 

IV. The Green Silk Purse 27 

V. Dobbin of Ours 41 

VI. Vauxhall 53 

VII. Crawley of Queen's Crawley. 70 

VIII. Private and Confidential 80 

IX. Family Portraits 88 

X. Miss Sharp begins to make Friends 95 

XI. Arcadian Simplicity loi 

XII. Quite a Sentimental Chapter 115 

XIII. Sentimental and Otherwise 124 

XIV. Miss Crawley at Home i^-j 

XV. In which Rebecca's Husband appears for a Short Time. . 157 

XVI. The Letter on the Pincushion 167 

XVII. How Captain Dobbin Bought a Piano 176 

XVIII. Who Played on the Piano Captain Dobbin bought 185 

XIX. Miss Crawley at Nurse . 197 

XX. In which Captain Dobbin acts as the Messenger of 

Hymen 208 

XXI. A Quarrel about an Heiress 218 

XXII. A Marriage and Part of a Honeymoon 228 

XXIII. Captain Dobbin proceeds on his Canvass 237 

XXIV. In which Mr. Osborne takes down the Family Bible 244 

XXV. In which all the Principal Personages think fit to leave 

Brighton 258 

XXVI. Between London and Chatham 278 

XXVII. In which Amelia joins her Regiment 287 

XXVIII. In which Amelia invades the Low Countries 295 

XXIX. Brussels 305 

XXX. " The Girl I Left Behind Me" 319 

XXXI. In which Jos Sedley takes Care of his Sister 329 

XXXII. In which Jos takes Flight, and the War is Brought to a 

Close 341 



IV 



CONTENTS. 



CHAP. 

XXXIII. 

XXXIV. 
XXXV. 

XXXVI. 

XXXVII. 

XXXVIII. 

XXXIX. 

XL. 

XLI. 

XLII. 

XLIII. 

XLIV. 

XLV. 

XLVI. 

XLVII. 

XLVIII. 

XLIX. 

L. 

LI. 

LII. 

LIII. 

LIV. 
LV. 

LVI. 
LVII. 
LVIII. 

LIX. 
LX. 

LXI. 

LXII. 

LXIII. 

LXIV. 

LXV. 

XLVI. 

LXVII. 



In which Miss Crawley's Relations are very Anxious about 

Her 359 

James Crawley's Pipe is put Out 370 

Widow and Mother 387 

How to Live Well on Nothing A-year 398 

The Subject Continued , . 408 

A Family in a very Small Way „ . , 423 

A Cynical Chapter 437 

In which Becky is Recognized by the Family 448 

In which Becky revisits the Halls of her Ancestors 458 

Which Treats of the Osborne Family 470 

In which the Reader has to Double the Cape 477 

A Round-about Chapter between London and Hamp- 
shire 487 

Between Hampshire and London 498 

Struggles and Trials , 508 

Gaunt House 516 

In which the Reader is Introduced to the very best of 

Company 526 

In which we enjoy Three Courses and a Dessert. ...... 538 

Contains a Vulgar Incident 546 

In which a Charade is Acted which may or may not Puzzle 

the Reader , 556 

In which Lord Steyne shows Himself in a most Amiable 

Light 576 

A Rescue and a Catastrophe 586 

Sunday after the Battle 595 

In which the same Subject is Pursued 606 

Georgy is Made a Gentleman 621 

Eothen 634 

Our Friend the Major 643 

The Old Piano 655 

Returns to the Genteel World 667 

In which Two Lights are put Out 674 

Am Rhein 688 

In which we Meet an old Acquaintance 701 

A Vagabond Chapter 714 

Full of Business and Pleasure 730 

Amantium Irae 739 

Which contains Births, Marriages and Deaths 754 



VANITY FAIR 



A NOVEL WITHOUT A HERO. 



CHAPTER I. 



CHISWICK MALL. 




HILE the present century 
was in its teens, and on one 
sunshiny morning in June, 
there drove up to the great 
iron gate of Miss Pinker- 
ton's academy for young 
ladies, on Chiswick Mall, a 
large family coach, with 
two fat horses in blazing 
harness, driven by a fat 
coachman in a three-cor- 
nered hat and wig, at the 
rate of four miles an hour. 
A black servant, who re- 
posed on the box beside the fat coachman, uncurled his bandy 
legs as soon as the equipage drew up opposite Miss Pinker- 
ton's shining brass plate, and as he pulled the bell at least 
a score of young heads were seen peering out of the narrow 
windows of the stately old brick house. Nay, the acute 
observer might have recognized the little red nose of good- 
natured Miss Jemima Pinkerton herself, rising over some ge- 
ranium-pots in the window of that lady's own drawing-room. 
"It is Mrs. Sedley's coach, sister," said Miss Jemima. 
" Sambo, the black servant, has just rung the bell ; and the 
coachman has a new red waistcoat." 

''Have you completed all the necessary preparations in- 



IPP 



2 VANITY FAIR. 

cident to Miss Sedley's departure, Miss Jemima ?" asked Miss 
Pinkerton herself, that majestic lady ; the Semiramis of Ham- 
mersmith, the friend of Doctor Johnson, the correspondent 
of Mrs. Chapone herself. 

" The girls were up at four this morning, packing her 
trunks, sister," replied Miss Jf,mima ; " we have mado her a 
bow-pot." 

" Say a bouquet, sister Jemima, 'tis more genteel." 

" Well, a booky as big almost as a hay-stack ; I have 
put up two bottles of thegillyflower-water for Mrs. Sedley, 
and the receipt for making it, in Amelia's box." 

" And I trust. Miss Jemima, you have made a copy of 
Miss Sedley's account. This is it, is it ? Very good — ninety- 
three pounds four shillings. Be kind enough to address 
it to John Sedley, Esquire, and to seal this billet which I 
have written to his lady." 




In Miss Jemima's eyes an autograph letter of her sister, 
Miss Pinkerton, was an object of as deep veneration as would 



\ 



CH IS WICK MALL. 3 

have been a letter from a sovereign. Only when her pupils 
quitted the establishment, or when they were about to be 
married, and once, when poor Miss Birch died of the scarlet 
fever, was Miss Pinkerton known to write personally to the 
parents of her pupils ; and it was Jemima's opinion that if 
anything r^z//^ console Mrs. Birch for her daughter's loss, it 
would be that pious and eloquent composition in which Miss 
Pinkerton announced the event. 

In the present instance Miss Pinkerton's " billet " was to 
the following effect : 

" The Mall, Chiswick, June 15, 18—. 

" Madam : After her six years' residence at the Mall, I have the honor 
and happiness of presenting Miss Amelia Sedley to her parents, as a young 
lady not unworthy to occupy a fitting position in their polished and refined 
circle. Those virtues which characterize the young English gentlewoman, 
those accomplishments which become her birth and station, will not be found 
wanting in the amiable Miss Sedley, whose indzistry and obedience have en- 
deared her to her instructors, and whose delightful sweetness of temper has 
charmed her aged and h^r youthful companions. 

" In music, in dancing, in orthography, in every variety of embroidery 
and needle-work, she will be found to have realized her friends' fondest 
wishes. In geography there is still much to be desired ; and a careful and 
undeviating use of the backboard, for four hours daily during the next ihree 
years, is recommended as necessary to the acquirement of that dignified de- 
portment and carriage so requisite for every young lady oi fashion. 

" In the principles of religion and morality. Miss Sedley will be found 
worthy of an establishment which has been honored by the presence of The 
Great Lexicographer, and the patronage of the admirable Mrs. Chapone In 
leaving the Mall, Miss Amelia carries with her the hearts of her compan- 
ions, and the affectionate regards of her mistress, who has the honor to sub- 
scribe herself, 

" Madam, 
" Your most obliged humble servant, 

" Barbara Pinkerton. 

" P. S.— Miss Sharp accompanies Miss Sedley. It is particularly re- 
quested that Miss Sharp's stay in Russell Square may not exceed ten days. 
The family of distinction with whom she is engaged desire to avail them- 
selves of her services as soon as possible." 

This letter completed, Miss Pinkerton proceeded to write 
her own name and Miss Sedley's in the fly-leaf of a John- 
son's Dictionary — 'the interesting work which she invariably 
presented to her scholars, on their departure from the Mall. 
On the cover was inserted a copy of " Lines addressed to 
a young lady on quitting Miss Pinkerton's school, at the 
Mall: by the late revered Doctor Samuel Johnson." In 
fact, the lexicographer's name was always on the lips of this 
majestic woman, and a visit he had paid to her was the 
cause of her reputation and her fortune. 



4 VANITY FAIR. 

Being commanded by her elder sister to get " thie Dic- 
tionary^' from the cupboard, Miss Jemima had extracted two 
copies of the book from the receptacle in question. When 
• Miss Pinkerton had finished the inscription in the first, 
Jemima, with rather a dubious and timid air, handed her the 
second. 

"For whom is this. Miss Jemima?" said Miss Pinker- 
ton, with awfu] coldness. 

" For Becky Sharp," answered Jemima, trembling very 
much, and blushing over her withered face and neck, as she 
turned her back on her sister. " For Becky Sharp ; she's 
going, too." 

" MISS JEMIMA !" exclaimed Miss Pinkerton, in the 
largest capitals. "Are you in your senses? Replace the 
Dixonary in the closet, and never venture to take such a lib- 
erty in future." 

" Well, sister, it's only two-and-ninepence, and poor Becky 
will be miserable if she don't get one." 

" Send Miss Sedley instantly to me," said Miss Pinkerton. 
And so venturing not to say another word, poor Jemima trot- 
ted off, exceedingly flurried and nervous. 

Miss Sedley's papa was a merchant in London, and a man of 
some wealth ; whereas Miss Sharp was an articled p^pil, for 
whom Miss Pinkerton had done, as she thought, quite enough, 
without conferring upon her at parting the high honor of the 
jDixonary. 

Although schoolmistresses' letters are to be trusted no more 
nor less than churchyard epitaphs ; yet, as it sometimes hap- 
pens that a person departs this life who is really deserving of 
all the praises the stone-cutter carves over his bones — who is 
a good Christian, a good parent, child, wife, or husband ; who 
actually does leave a disconsolate family to mourn his loss — 
so in academies of the male and female sex it occurs every 
now and then that the pupil is fully worthy of the praises 
bestowed by the disinterested instructor. Now, Miss Ame- 
lia Sedley was a young lady of this singular species, and 
deserved not only all that Miss Pinkerton said in her praise, 
but had many charming qualities which that pompous old 
31inerva of a woman could not see, from the differences of 
rank and age between her pupil and herself. 

For she could not only sing like a lark, or a Mrs. Billington, 
and dance like Hillisberg or Parisot, and embroider beauti- 
fully, and spell as well as a Dixonary itself, but she had such 
a kindly, smiling, tender, gentle, generous heart of her own 
as won the love of everybody who came near her, from Miner- 




. cms WICK MALL, 5 

va herself down to the poor girl in the scullery and the one- 
eyed tart-woman's daughter, who was permitted to vend her 
wares once a week to the young ladies in the Mall. She had- 
twelve intimate and bosom friends out of the twenty-four 
young ladies. Even envious Miss Briggs never spoke ill of 
her : high and mighty Miss Saltire (Lord Dexter's grand- 
daughter) allowed that her figure was genteel ; and as for 
Miss Swartz, the rich woolly-haired mulatto from St. Kitt's, 
on the day Amelia went away, she was in such a passion of 
tears that they were obliged to send tor Dr. Floss, and half 
tipsify her with sal volatile. Miss Pinkerton's attachment 
was, as may be supposed, from the high position and eminent 
virtues of that lady, calm and dignified ; but Miss Jemima 
had already whimpered several times at the idea of Amelia's 
departure, and, but for fear of her sister, w^ould have gore 
off in downright hysterics, like the heiress (who paid double) 
of St. Kitt's. Such luxury of grief, however, is only allowed 
to parlor-boarders. Honest Jemima had all the bills, and the 
washing, and the mending, and the puddings, and the plate 
and crockery, and the servants to superintend. But why 
■speak about her ? Tt is probable that we shall not hear of her 
again from this moment to the end of time, and that when the 
great filigree iron gates are once closed on her, she and her 
awful sister will never issue therefrom into this little world of 
history. 

But as we are to see a great deal of Amelia, there is no harm 
in saying, at the outset of our acquaintance, that she was a 
dear little creature ;\and a great mercy it is, both in life and 
in novels, which (and the latter especially) abound in vil- 
lains of the most sombre sort, that we are to have for a con- 
stant companion so guileless and good-natured a person. As 
she is not a heroine, there is no need to describe her person ; 
indeed I am afraid that her nose was rather short than other- 
wise, and her cheeks a great deal too round and red for, ^^ 
heroine ; but her face blushed with rosy health, and her ]ips 
with the freshest of smiles, and she had a pair of eyes wi^ich 
sparkled with the brightest and honestest good-humor, ex- 
cept, indeed, when they filled with tears, and that was a great 
deal too often ; for the silly thing would cry over a dead 
canary-bird, or over a mouse that the cat haply had seized 
upon ; or over the end of a novel, were it ever so stupid ; and 
as for saying an unkind word to her, were any persons hard- 
hearted enough to do so — why, so much the worse for them. 
Even Miss Pinkerton, that austere and god-like woman, 
•ceased scolding her after the first time, and though she no 



VANITY FAIR. 



more comprehended sensibility than she did algebra, gave all 
masters and teachers particular orders to treat Miss Sedley 
with the utmost gentleness, as harsh treatment was injurious 
to her. 

So that when the day of departure came, between her two 
customs of laughing and crying. Miss Sedley was greatly puz- 
zled how to act. She was glad to go home, and yet most woe- 
fully sad at leaving school. For three days before, little 
Laura Martin, the orphan, followed her about, like a little 
dog. She had to make and receive at least fourteen presents 
— to make fourteen solemn promises of writing every week. 
*' Send my letters under cover to my grandpapa, the Earl of 
Dexter," said Miss Saltire (who, by the way, was rather shab- 
by) ; " Never mind the postage, but write every day, you dear 
darling," said the impetuous and woolly-headed, but generous 
and affectionate. Miss Swartz ; and the orphan, little Laura 
Martin (who was just in round-hand), took her friend's hand 
and said, looking up in her face wistfully, " Amelia, when I 
write to you I shall call yoii mamma." jAll which details, I 




have no doubt, Jones, who reads this book at his club, wilP 
pronounce to be excessively foolish, trivial, twaddling, and 
ultra-sentimental. Yes ; I can see Jones at this minute (rather 
flushed with his joint of mutton and half pint of wine), taking 
out his pencil and scoring under the words " foolish, twad- 
dling," etc., and adding to them his own remark of '* quite 



"n 



CHI S WICK MALL. 7 

true.'' Well, he is a lofty man of genius, and admires the 
great and heroic in life and novels ; and so had better take 
warning and go elsewhere. 

Well, then. The flowers, and the presents, and the trunks, 
and bonnet-boxes of Miss Sedley having been arranged by Mr. 
Sambo in the carriage, together with a very small and weather- 
beaten old cow's-skin trunk with Miss Sharp's card neatly 
nailed upon it, which was delivered by Sambo with a grin, 
and packed by the coachman with a corresponding sneer, the 
hour for parting came ; and the grief of that moment was 
considerably lessened by the admirable discourse which Miss 
Pinkerton addressed to her pupil. Not that the parting 
speech caused Amelia to philosophize, or that it armed her in 
any way with a calmness, the result of argument ; but it was 
intolerably dull, pompous, and tedious ; and having the fear 
of her schoolmistress greatly before her eyes. Miss Sedley 
did not venture, in her presence, to give way to any ebulli- 
tions of private grief. A seed-cake and a bottle of wine were 
produced in the drawing-room, as on the solemn occasions of 
the visits of parents, and these refreshments being partaken 
of, Miss Sedley was at liberty to depart. 

" You'll go in and say good-by to Miss Pinkerton, Becky," 
said Miss Jemima to a young lady of whom nobody took any 
notice, and who was coming down-stairs with her own band- 
box. 

" I suppose I must," said Miss Sharp calmly, and much 
to the wonder of Miss Jemima ; and the latter having knocked 
at the door, and received permission to come in. Miss Sharp 
advanced in a very unconcerned manner, and said in French, 
and with a perfect accent, " Mademoiselle, je viens vous faire 
mes adieux." 

Miss Pinkerton did not understand French ; she only 
directed those who did ; but biting her lips and throwing up 
her venerable and Roman-nosed head (on the top of which 
figured a large and solemn turban), she said, " Miss Sharp, 
I wish you a good-morning." As the Hammersmith Semira- 
mis spoke, she waved one hand, both by way of adieu and to 
give Miss Sharp an opportunity of shaking one of the fingers 
of the hand which was left out for that purpose. 

Miss Sharp only folded her own hands with a very frigid 
smile and bow, and quite declined to accept the proffered 
honor ; on which Semiramis tossed up her turban more indig- 
nantly than ever. In fact, it was a little battle between the 
young lady and the old one, and the latter was worsted. 
" Heaven bless you, my child," said she, embracing Amelia, 



VANITY FAIR. 



and scowling the while over the girl's shoulder at Miss Sharp. 
" Come away, Becky," said Miss Jemima, pulling the young 
woman away in great alarm, and the drawing-room door 
closed upon them forever. 

Then came the struggle and parting below. Words refuse 
to tell it. All the servants were there in the hall — all the 
dear friends — all the young ladies — the dancing-master, who 
had just arrived ; and there was such a scuffling, and hugging, 
and kissing, and crying, with the hysterical yoops of Miss 
Swartz, the parlor-boarder, from her room, as no pen can de- 
pict and as the tender heart would fain pass over. The 
embracing was over ; they parted — that is. Miss Sedley parted 
from her friends. Miss Sharp had demurely entered the car- 
riage some minutes before. Nobody cried for leaving her. 

Sambo of the bandy legs slammed the carriage-door on his 
young weeping mistress. He sprang up behind the carriage. 
" Stop !" cried Miss Jemima, rushing to the gate with a 
parcel. 

" It's some sandwiches, my dear," said she to Amelia. 
" You may be hungry, you know ; and Becky, Becky Sharp, 
here's a book for you that my sister — that is, I — Johnson's 
Dixonary, you know ; you mustn't leave us without that. 
Good-by. Drive on, coachman. God bless you !" 

And the kind creature retreated into the garden, over- 
come with emotion. 

But, lo I and just as the 
coach drove off. Miss Sharp put 
her pale face out of the window 
and actually flung the book 
back into the garden. 

This almost caused Jemima 
to faint with terror. " Well, 
I never, " said she. " What an 
audacious — " Emotion prevent- 
ed her from completing either 
sentence. The carriage rolled 
away ; the great gates were 
closed ; the bell rang for the 
dancing lesson. The world is 
before the two young ladies ; 
and so, farewell to Chiswick 
Mall. 




PREPARING TO OPEN THE CAMPAIGN, 




CHAPTER II. 

IN WHICH MISS SHARP AND MISS SEDLEY PREPARE TO OPEN 
THE CAMPAIGN. 

'HEN Miss Sharp had performed the heroical 
act mentioned in the last chapter, and had 
seen the Dixonary, flying over the pavement 
of the little garden, fall at length at the feet 
of the astonished Miss Jemima, the young 
lady's countenance, which had before worn 
an almost livid look of hatred, assumed a 
smile that perhaps was scarcely more agree- 
able, and she sank back in the carriage in an easy frame of 
mind, saying, " So much for the Dixonary ; and, thank 
God, I'm out of Chiswick." 

Miss Sedley was almost as flurried at the act of defiance as 
Miss Jemima had been ; for, consider, it was but one minute 
that she had left school, and the impressions of six years are 
not got over in that space of time. Nay, with some persons 
those awes and terrors of youth last for ever and ever. I 
know, for instance, an old gentleman of sixty-eight, who 
said to me one morning at breakfast, with a very agitated 
countenance, " I dreamed last night that I was flogged by Dr. 
Raine." Fancy had carried him back five-and-fifty years in 
the course of that evening. Dr. Raine and his rod were just 
as awful to him in his heart, then, at sixty-eight, as they 
had been at thirteen. If the Doctor, with a large birch, had 
appeared bodily to him, even at the age of threescore and 
eight, and had said in awful voice, " Boy, take down your 
pant . . ." Well, well, Miss Sedley was exceedingly 
alarmed at this act of insubordination. 

" How could you do so, Rebecca ?" at last she said, after a 
pause. 

" Why, do you think Miss Pinkerton will come out and 
order me back to the blackhole ?" said Rebecca, laughing. 
" No ; but—" 

" I hate the whole house," continued Miss Sharp in a fury. 
*' I hope I may never set eyes on it again. I wish it were 



lo VANITY FAIR. 

in the bottom of the Thames, I do ; and if Miss Pinkerton 
were there, I wouldn't pick her out, that I wouldn't. Oh, 
how I should like to see her floating in the water, turban and 
all, with her train streaming after her, and her nose like the 
beak of a wherry." 

" Hush !" cried Miss Sedley. 

" Why, will the black footman tell tales ?" cried Miss Re- 
becca, laughing. " He may go back and tell Miss Pinkerton 
that I hate her with all my soul ; and I wish he would ; and 
I wish I had a means of proving it, too. For two years I 
have had only insults and outrage from her. I have been 
treated worse than any servant in the kitchen. I have 
never had a friend or a kind word, except from you. I have 
been made to tend the little girls in the lower school-room, 
and to talk French to the Misses, until I grew sick of my 
mother-tongue. But that talking French to Miss Pinkerton 
was capital fun, wasn't it ? She doesn't know a word of 
French, and was too proud to confess it. I believe it was 
that which made her part with me ; and so thank Heaven for 
French. . Vive la Fraiice ! Vive F E?npej'eur I Vive Bonaparte!'' 

" O Rebecca, Rebecca, for shame !" cried Miss Sedley ; 
for this was the greatest blasphemy Rebecca had as yet ut- 
tered ; and in those days in England, to say, " Long live 
Bonaparte !" was as much as to say, " Long live Lucifer !" 
" How can you — how dare you have such wicked, revengeful 
thoughts ?" 

" Revenge may be wicked, but it's natural," answered 
Miss Rebecca. " Fm no angel." And to say the truth, she 
certainly was not. 

For it may be remarked in the course of this little conver- 
sation (which took place as the coach rolled along lazily by 
the river-side) that though Miss Rebecca Sharp has twice had 
occasion to thank Heaven, it has been, in the first place, for 
ridding her of some person whom she hated, and, secondly, 
for enabling her to bring her enemies to some sort of per- 
plexity or confusion ; neither of which are very amiable mo- 
tives for religious gratitude, or such as would be put forward 
by persons of a kind and placable disposition. Miss Rebecca 
was not, then, in the least kind or placable. All the world 
used her ill, said this young misanthropist, and we may be 
pretty certain that persons whom all the world treats ill de- 
serve entirely the treatment they get. The world is a look- 
ing-glass, and gives back to ev^ery man the reflection of his 
own face. Frown at it, and it will in turn look sourly upon 
3'ou ; laugh at it and with it, and it is a jolly, kind compan- 



PREPARING TO OPEN THE CAMPAIGN. II 

on ; and so let all young persons take their choice. This is 
;ertain, that if the world neglected Miss Sharp, she never was 
mown to have done a good action in behalf of anybody ; nor 
:an it be expected that twenty-four young ladies should all be 
IS amiable as the heroine of this work, Miss Sedley — (whom we 
lave selected for the very reason that she was the best natured 
)f all, otherwise what on earth was to have prevented us from 
)utting up Miss Swartz, or Miss Crump, or Miss Hopkins, 
IS heroine in her place ?) — it could not be expected that 
:very one should be of the humble and gentle temper of Miss 
Vmelia Sedley ; should take every opportunity to vanquish 
ilebecca's hard-heartedness and ill-humor ; and, by a thousand 
:ind words and offices, overcome, for once at least, her hos- 
ility to her kind. 

Miss Sharp's father was an artist, and, in that quality, 
lad given lessons of drawing at Miss Pinkerton's school. 
ie was a clever man ; a pleasant companion ; a careless stu- 
dent ; with a great propensity for running into debt, and a 
partiality for the tavern. When he was drunk, he used to 
)eat his wife and daughter ; and the next morning, with a 
leadache, he would rail at the world for its neglect of his 
genius, and abuse, with a good deal of cleverness, and some- 
times with perfect reason, the fools, his brother painters. As 
t was with the utmost difficulty that he could keep himself, 
.nd as he owed money for a mile round Soho, where he lived, 
le thought to better his circumstances by marrying a young 
voman of the French nation, who was by profession an 
>pera-girl. The humble calling of her female parent Miss 
)harp never alluded to, but used to state subsequently that 
he Entrechats were a noble family of Gascony, and took 
:^reat pride in her descent from them. And curious it is, 
hat as she advanced in life this young lady's ancestors in- 
reased in rank and splendor. 

Rebecca's mother had had some education somewhere, 
nd her daughter spoke French with purity and a Parisian 
ccent. It was in those days rather a rare accomplishment, 
nd led to her engagement with the orthodox Miss Pinker- 
on. For her mother being dead, her father, finding him 
-elf not likely to recover, after his third attack of deliriuin 
t-emens, wrote a manly and pathetic letter to Miss Pinkerton, 
ecommending the orphan child to her protection, and so 
lescended to the grave, after two bailiffs had quarrelled over 
lis corpse. Rebecca was seventeen when she came to Chis- 
v^ick, and was bound over as an articled pupil ; her duties 



12 VANITY FAIR. 

being to talk French, as we have seen, and her privileges to 
live cost free, and, with a few guineas a year, to gather scraps 
of knowledge from the professors who attended the school. 

She was small and slight in person ; pale, sandy-haired, 
and with eyes habitually cast down ; when they looked up 
they were very large, odd, and attractive : so attractive that 
the Reverend Mr. Crisp, fresh from Oxford, and curate to the 
Vicar of Chiswick, the Reverend Mr. Flowerdew, fell in love 
with Miss Sharp, being shot dead by a glance of her eyes 
which was fired all the way across Chiswick Church from 
the school-pew to the reading-desk. This infatuated young 
man used sometimes to take tea with Miss Pinkerton, to 
whom he had been presented by his mamma, and actually 
proposed something like marriage in an intercepted note, 
which the one-eyed apple-woman was charged to deliver. Mrs. 
Crisp was summoned from Buxton, and abruptly carried off 
her darling boy ;'but the idea, even, of such an eagle in the 
Chiswick dove-cot caused a great flutter in the breast of Miss 
Pinkerton, who would have sent away Miss Sharp, but that 
she was bound to her under a forfeit, and who never could 
thoroughly believe the young lady's protestations that she 
had never exchanged a single word with Mr. Crisp, except 
under her own eyes on the two occasions when she had met 
him at tea. 

By the side of many tall and bouncing young ladies in the 
establishment, Rebecca Sharp looked like a child. But she 
had the dismal precocity of poverty. Many a dun had she 
talked to, and turned away from her father's door ; many a 
tradesman had she coaxed and wheedled into good-humor, 
and into the granting of one meal more. She sat commonly 
with her father, who was very proud of her wit, and heard 
the talk of many of his wild companions — often but ill-suited 
for a girl to hear. But she never had been a girl, she said ; 
she had been a woman since she was eight years old. Oh, 
why did Miss Pinkerton let such a dangerous bird into her 
cage ? 

The fact is, the old lady believed Rebecca to be the meekest 
creature in the world, so admirably, on the occasions when 
her father brought her to Chiswick, used Rebecca to perform 
the part of the ingenue ; and only a year before the arrange- 
ment by which Rebecca had been admitted into her house, 
and when Rebecca was sixteen years old, Miss Pinkerton ma- 
jestically, and with a little speech, made her a present of a 
doll — which was, by the way, the confiscated property of 
Miss Swindle, discovered surreptitiously nursing it in school- 



PREPARING TO OPEN THE CAMPAIGN. 



13 



urs. How the father and daughter laughed as they 
i.radged home together after the evening party (it was on the 
/. casion of the speeches, when all the professors were invit- 
ed), and how Miss Pinkerton would have raged had she seen 
^^.e caricature of herself which the little mimic, Rebecca, 

inaged to make out of her doll. Becky used to go through 
...alogues with it ; it formed the delight of Newman Street, 
Gerard Street, and the artists' quarter ; and the young paint- 
••T'5, when they came to take their gin-and-water with their 
lazy, dissolute, clever, jovial senior, used regularly to ask Re- 
■ cca if Miss Pinkerton was at home ; she was as well known 
them, poor soul ! as Mr. Lawrence or President West. 

ice Rebecca had the honor to pass a few days at Chiswick ; 

ter which she brought back Jemima, and erected another 





dU as Miss Jemmy ; for though that honest creature had 
ade and given her jelly and cake enough for three children, 
ad a seven-shilling piece at parting, the girl's sense of 



14 VANITY FAIR. 

ridicule was far stronger than her gratitude, and she sacri- 
ficed Miss Jemmy quite as pitilessly as her sister. 

The catastrophe came, and she was brought to the Mall 
as to her home. The rigid formality of the place suffo- 
cated her ; the prayers and the meals, the lessons and the 
walks, which were arranged with a conventional regularity, 
oppressed her almost beyond endurance ; and she lookea 
back to the freedom and the beggary of the old studio in Sohc 
with so much regret, that everybody, herself included, fancied 
she was consumed with grief for her father. She had a little 
room in the garret, where the maids heard her walking and 
sobbing at night ; but it was with rage, and not with grief. 
She had not been much of a dissembler, until now her lone- 
liness taught her to feign. She had never mingled in the 
society of women ; her father, reprobate as he was, was a 
man of talent ; his conversation was a thousand times more 
agreeable to her than the talk of such of her own sex as she 
now encountered. The pompous vanity of the old school- 
mistress, the foolish good-humor of her sister, the silly chat 
and scandal of the elder girls, and the frigid correctness of 
the governesses equally annoyed her ; and she had no sof ■ 
maternal heart, this unlucky girl, otherwise the prattle an( 
talk of the younger children, with whose care she was chiefl} 
intrusted, might have soothed and interested her ; but she 
lived among them two years, and not one was sorry that she 
went away. The gentle, tender-hearted Amelia Sedley was 
the only person to whom she could attach herself in the least ; 
and who could help attaching herself to Amelia ? 

The happiness — the superior advantages of the young 
women round about her, gave Rebecca inexpressible pangs 
of envy. " What airs that girl gives herself, because she is an 
earl's granddaughter !" she said of one. " How they cringe 
and bow to that Creole, because of her hundred thousand 
pounds ! I am a thousand times cleverer and more charming 
than that creature, for all her wealth. I am as well bred as 
the earl's granddaughter, for all her fine pedigree ; and yet 
every one passes me by here. And yet, when I was at my 
father's, did not the men give up their gayest balls and par- 
ties in order to pass the evening with me ?" She determined 
at any rate to get free from the prison in which she found her- 
self, and now began to act for herself, and for the first time to 
make connected plans for the future. 

She took advantage, therefore, of the means of study the 
place offered her; and as she was already a musician and a good 
linguist, she speedily went through the little course of study 



PREPARING TO OPEN THE CAMPAIGN. 15 

which was considered necessary for ladies in those days. 
Her music she practised incessantly, and one day, when the 
girls were out, and she had remained at home, she was over- 
heard to play a piece so well that Minerva thought, wisely, 
she could spare herself the expense of a master for the juniors, 
and intimated to Miss Sharp that she was to instruct ttiem in 
music for the future. 

The girl refused ; and for the first time, and to the aston- 
ishment of the majestic mistress of the school. " I am here 
to speak French with the children," Rebecca said abruptly, 
" not to teach them music and save money for you. Give 
me money, and I will teach them." 

Minerva was obliged to yield, and, of course, disliked 
her from that day. "For five-and-thirty years," she said, 
and with great justice, " I never have seen the individual who 
has dared in my own house to question my authority. I 
have nourished a viper in my bosom." 

" A viper — a fiddlestick," said Miss Sharp to the old lady, 
almost fainting with astonishment. " You took me because 
I was useful. There is no question of gratitude between us. 
T hate this place, and want to leave it. I will do nothing 
here but what I am obliged to do." 

It was in vain that the old lady asked her if she was aware 
she was speaking to Miss Pinkerton ? Rebecca laughed in her 
face, with a horrid sarcastic demoniacal laughter, that almost 
sent the schoolmistress into fits. " Give me a sum of money," 
said the girl, " and get rid of me — or, if you like better, get 
me a good place as governess in a nobleman's family — you 
can do so if you please." And in their further disputes she 
always returned to this point, "Get me a situation — we hate 
each other, and I am ready to go." 

Worthy Miss Pinkerton, although she had a Roman nose 
and a turban, and was as tall as a grenadier, and had been up 
to this time an irresistible princess, had no will or strength 
like that of her little apprentice, and in vain did battle against 
her, and tried to overawe her. Attempting once to scold her 
in public, Rebecca hit upon the before-mentioned plan of 
answering her in French, which quite routed the old woman. 
In order to maintain authority in her school, it became neces- 
sary to remove this rebel, this monster, this serpent, this fire- 
brand ; and hearing about this time that Sir Pitt Crawley's 
family was in want of a governess, she actually recommended 
Miss Sharp for the situation, firebrand and serpent as she wg;:. 
" I cannot, certainly," she said, " find fault with Miss Sharp' j*. 
conduct, except to myself ; and must allow that her taler^j 



1 6 VANITY FAIR. 

and accomplishments are of a high order. As far as the head 
goes, at least, she does credit to the educational system pur- 
sued at my establishment." 

And so the schoolmistress reconciled the recommendation 
to her conscience, and the indentures were cancelled, and the 
apprentice was free. The battle here described in a few lines, 
of course, lasted for some months. And as Miss Sedley, being 
now in her seventeenth year, was about to leave school, and 
had a friendship for Miss Sharp (" 'tis the only point in Ame- 
lia's behavior," said Minerva, " which has not been satisfac- 
tory to her mistress"), Miss Sharp was invited by her friend 
to pass a week with her at home, before she entered upon her 
duties as governess in a private family. 

Thus the world began for these two young ladies. For 
Amelia it was quite a new, fresh, brilliant world, with all the 
bloom upon it. It was not quite a new one for Rebecca — 
(indeed, if the truth must be told with respect to the Crisp 
affair, the tart-woman hinted to somebody, who took an affi- 
davit of the fact to somebody else, that there was a great deal 
more than was made public regarding Mr. Crisp and Miss 
Sharp, and that his letter was //^ answer \.q another letter). But 
who can tell you the real truth of the matter ? At all events, 
if Rebecca was not beginning the world, she was beginning 
it over again. 

By the time the young ladies reached Kensington turn- 
pike, Amelia had not forgotten her companions, but had 
dried her tears, and had blushed very much and been delight- 
ed at a young officer of the Life Guards, who spied her as he 
was riding by, and said, " A dem fine gal, egad !" and be- 
fore the carriage arrived in Russell Square, a great deal of 
conversation had taken place about the drawing-room, and 
whether or not young ladies wore powder as well as hoops 
when presented, and whether she was to have that honor ; 
to the Lord Mayor's ball she knew she was to go. And 
when at length home was reached. Miss Amelia Sedley skipped 
out on Sambo's arm, as happy and as handsome a girl as any 
in the whole big city of London. Both he and the coachman 
agreed on this point, and so did her father and mother, and 
so did every one of the servants in the house, as they stood 
bobbing, and courtesying, and smiling, in the hall to welcome 
their young mistress. 

You may be sure that she showed Rebecca over every 
room of the house, and everything in every one of her draw- 
ers ; and her books, and her piano, and her dresses, and all 
her necklaces, brooches, laces, and gimcracks. She insisted 



PREPARING TO OPEN THE CAMPAIGN. 17 

upon Rebecca accepting the white carnelian and the turquoise 
rings, and a sweet sprigged muslin, which was too small for 
her now, though it would fit her friend to a nicety ; and she 
determined in her heart to ask her mother's permission to 
present her white Cashmere shawl to her friend. Could she 
not spare it, and had not her brother Joseph just brought her 
two from India ? 

When Rebecca saw the two magnificent Cashmere shawls 
which Joseph Sedley had brought home to his sister, she said, 
with perfect truth, that " it must be delightful to have a 
brother," and easily got the pity of the tender-hearted Ame- 
lia for being alone in the world, an orphan without friends or 
kindred. 

" Not alone," said Amelia; "you know, Rebecca, I shall 
always be your friend, and love you as a sister — indeed I 
will." 

" Ah, but to have parents, as you have — kind, rich, affec- 
tionate parents, who give you everything you ask for ; and 
their love, which is more precious than all ! My poor papa 
could give me nothing, and I had but two frocks in all the 
world ! And then, to have a brother, a dear brother I Oh, 
how you must love him !" 

Amelia laughed. 

" What ! doji't you love him ? you, who say you love every- 
body ?" 

** Yes, of course, I do — only — " 

" Only what ?" 

" Only Joseph doesn't seem to care much whether I love 
him or not. He gave me two fingers to shake when he ar- 
rived after ten years' absence. He is very kind and good, 
but he scarcely ever speaks to me ; I think he loves his pipe 
a great deal better than his — " but here Amelia checked her- 
self , for why should she speak ill of her brother? " He was 
very kind to me as a child," she added ; " I was but five 
years old when he went away." 

*' Isn't he very rich ?" said Rebecca. " They say all Indian 
nabobs are enormously rich." 

'* I believe he has a very large income." 

" And is your sister-in-law a nice, pretty woman ?" 

" La ! Joseph is not married," said Amelia, laughing 
again. 

Perhaps she had mentioned the fact already to Rebecca, 
but that young lady did not appear to have remembered it ; 
indeed, vowed and protested that she expected to see a num- 
ber of Amelia's nephews and nieces. She was quite disap- 



15 VANITY FAIR. 

pointed that Mr. Sedley was not married ; she was sure Ame- 
lia had said he was, and she doted so on little children. 

" I think you must have had enough of them at Chiswick," 
said Amelia, rather wondering at the sudden tenderness on 
her friend's part ; and indeed in later days Miss Sharp would 
never have committed herself so far as to advance opinions 
the untruth of which would have been so easily detected. But 
we must remember that she is but nineteen as yet, unused to 
the art of deceiving, poor innocent creature ! and making 
her own experience in her own person. The meaning of 
the above series of queries, as translated in the heart of this 
ingenious young woman, was simply this: " If Mr. Joseph 
Sedley is rich and unmarried, why should I not marry him ? 
I have only a fortnight, to be sure, but there is no harm in 
trying." And she determined within herself to make this 
laudable attempt. She redoubled her caresses to Amelia ; 
she kissed the white carnelian necklace as she put it on ; 
and vowed she would never, never part with it. When the 
dinner-bell rang she went down-stairs with her arm round 
her friend's waist, as is the habit of young ladies. She was 
so agitated at the drawing-room door that she could hardly 
find courage to enter. " Feel my heart, how it beats, dear !" 
said she to her friend. 

" No, it doesn't," said Amelia. " Come in, don't befright» 
ened. Papa won't do you any harm." 




REBECCA IS IN PRESENCE OF THE ENEMY, 19 




CHAPTER III. 

REBECCA IS IN PRESENCE OF THE ENEMY. 

VERY Stout, puffy man, in buckskins and 
Hessian boots, with several immense 
neckcloths, that rose almost to his nose, 
with a red striped waistcoat and an 
apple-green coat with steel buttons 
almost as large as crown-pieces (it was 
the morning costume of a dandy or 
blood of those days), was reading the 
paper by the fire when the two girls 
entered, and bounced off his arm-chair, and blushed exces- 
sively, and hid his entire face almost in his neck-cloths at 
this apparition. 

" It's only your sister, Joseph," said Amelia, laughing and 
shaking the two fingers which he held out. " I've come home 
for geod^ you know ; and this is my friend. Miss Sharp, whom 
you have heard me mention." 

" No, never, upon my word," said the head under the 
neckcloth, shaking very much — " that is, yes — what abom- 
inably cold weather, miss ;" and herewith he fell to poking 
the fire with all his might, although it was in the middle of 
June. 

" He's very handsome," whispered Rebecca to Amelia, 
rather loud. 

" Do you think so ?" said the latter. " I'll tell him." 
" Darling ! not for worlds," said Miss Sharp, starting 
back as timid as a fawn. She had previously made a re- 
spectful, virgin-like courtesy to the gentleman, and her 
modest eyes gazed so perseveringly on the carpet that it was 
a wonder how she should have found an opportunity to see 
him. 

" Thank you f jr the beautiful shawls, brother," said 
Amelia to the fire-poker. " Are they not beautiful, Re- 
becca ?" 

" O heavenly !" said Miss Sharp, and her eyes went from 
the carpet straight to the chandelier. 



20 VANITY FAIR. 

Joseph still continued a huge clattering at the poker and 
tongs, puffing and blowing the while, and turning as red as 
his yellow face would allow him. 

*' I can't make you such handsome presents, Joseph," con- 
tinued his sister, " but while I was at school, I have embroi- 
dered for you a very beautiful pair of braces." 

" Good Gad ! Amelia," cried the brother, in serious alarm, 
" what do you mean ?" and plunging with all his might at the 
bell-rope, that article of furniture came away in his hand, 
and increased the honest fellow's confusion. '* For Heaven's 
sake see if my buggy's at the door. I ca7i't wait. I must go. 
D — that groom of m.ine. I must go." 

At this minute the father of the family walked in, rattling 
his seals like a true British merchant. " What's the matter, 
Emmy ?" says he. 

" Joseph wants me to see if his — his buggy is at the door. 
What is a buggy, papa ?" 

" It is a one-horse palanquin," said the old gentleman, who 
was a wag in his way. 

Joseph at this burst out into a wild fit of laughter, in which, 
encountering the eye of Miss Sharp, he stopped all of a sud- 
den, as if he had been shot. 

" This young lady is your friend t Miss Sharp, I am very 
happy to see you. Have you and Emmy been quarrelling 
already with Joseph^ that he wants to be off ?" 

" I promised Bonamy, of our service, sir," said Joseph," to 
dine with him." 

" O fie ! didn't you tell your mother you would dine 
here?" 

" But in this dress it's impossible." 

" Look at him ; isn't he handsome enough to dine any- 
where. Miss Sharp ?" 

On which, of course. Miss Sharp looked at her friend, and 
they both set off in a fit of laughter, highly agreeable to the 
old gentleman. 

" Did you ever see a pair of buckskins like those at Miss 
Pinkerton's ?" continued he, following up his advantage. 

** Gracious Heavens ! father," cried Joseph. 

*' There now, I have hurt his feelings. Mrs. Sedley, my 
dear, I have hurt your son's feelings. I have alluded to his 
buckskins. Ask Miss Sharp if I haven't? Come, Joseph, be 
friends with Miss Sharp, and let us all go to dinner." 

" There's a pillau, Joseph, just as you like it, and papa has 
brought home the best turbot in Billingsgate." 

" Come, come, sir. walk down-stairs with Miss Sharp, and 



I 




t 




REBECCA IS IN PRESENCE OF THE ENEMY, 21 

I will follow with these two young women," said the father, 
and he took an arm of wife and daughter and walked mer- 
rily off. 

If Miss Rebecca Sharp had determined in her heart upon 
making the conquest of this big beau, I don't think, ladies, 
we have any right to blame her ; for though the task of 
husband-hunting is generally, and with becoming modesty, in- 
trusted bv young persons to their mammas, recollect that Miss 
Sharp had no kind parent to arrange these delicate matters for 
her, and that if she did not get a husband for herself, there 
was no one else in the wide world who would take the trouble 
off her hands. What causes young people to "come out'' 
but the noble ambition of matrimony ? What sends them 
trooping to watering-places ? What keeps them dancing till 
five o'clock in the morning through a whole mortal season? 
What causes them to labor at piano-forte sonatas, and to 
learn four songs from a fashionable master at a guinea a les- 
son, and to play the harp if they have handsome arms and 
neat elbows, and to wear Lincoln-green toxophilite hats and 
feathers, but that they may bring down some " desirable" 
young man with those killing bows and arrows of theirs ? 
What causes respectable parents to take up their carpets, set 
their houses topsy-turvy, and spend a fifth of their year's in- 
come in ball suppers and iced champagne ? Is it sheer love 
of their species, and an unadulterated wish to see young peo- 
ple happy and dancing ? Psha ! they want to marry their 
daughters ; and as honest Mrs. Sedley has, in the depths 
of her kind heart, already arranged a score of little schemes 
for the settlement of her Amelia, so also had our beloved but 
unprotected Rebecca determined to do her very best to secure 
the husband who was even more necessary for her than for 
her friend. She had a vivid imagination ; she had, besides, 
read the " Arabian Nights" and " Guthrie's Geography ;" 
and it is a fact, that while she was dressing for dinner, and 
after she had asked Amelia whether her brother was very 
rich, she had built for herself a most magnificent castle in the 
air, of which she was mistress, with a husband somewhere 
in the background (she had not seen him as yet, and his fig- 
ure would not therefore be very distinct) ; she had arrayed 
herself in an infinity of shawls, turbans, and diamond neck- 
laces, and had mounted upon an elephant to the sound of the 
march in Bluebeard^ in order to pay a visit of ceremony to the 
Grand Mogul. Charming Alnaschar visions ! it is the happy 
privilege of youth to construct you, and many a fanciful 



22 VANITY FAIR. 

young creature besides Rebecca Sharp has indulged in these 
delightful day-dreams ere now ! 

Joseph Sedley was twelve years older than his sister Amelia. 
He was in the East India Company's Civil Service, and his 
name appeared, at the period of which we write, in the 
BengaJ division of the East India Register, as collector of 
Boggley WoUah, an honorable and lucrative post, as every- 
body knows. In order to know to what higher posts Joseph 
rose in the service, the reader is referred to the same periodi- 
cal. 

Boggley Wollah is situated in a fine, lonely, marshy, jungly 
district, famous for snipe-shooting, and where not unfre- 
quently you may flush a tiger. Ramgunge, where there is a 
magistrate, is only forty miles off, and there is a cavalry sta- 
tion about thirty miles farther — so Joseph wrote home to his 
parents, when he took possession of his collectorship. He had 
lived for about eight years of his life, quite alone, at this 
charming place, scarcely seeing a Christian face except twice 
a year, when the detachment arrived to carry off the revenues 
which he had collected to Calcutta. 

Luckily, at this time he caught a liver complaint, for the 
cure of which he returned to Europe, and which was the 
source of great comfort and amusement to him in his native 
country. He did not live with his family while in London, 
but had lodgings of his own, like a gay young bachelor. Be- 
fore he went to India he was too young to partake of the de- 
lightful pleasures of a man about town, and plunged into 
them on his return with considerable assiduity. He drove 
his horses in the park ; he dined at the fashionable taverns 
(for the Oriental Club was not as yet invented) ; he fre- 
quented the theatres, as the mode was in those days, or made 
his appearance at the opera, laboriously attired in tights and 
a cocked hat. 

On returning to India, and ever after, he used to talk of the 
pleasure of this period of his existence with great enthusiasm, 
and give you to understand that he and Brummel were the 
leading bucks of the day. But he was as lonely here as in 
his jungle at Boggley Wollah. He scarcely knew a single 
soul in the metropolis ; and were it not for his doctor, and 
the society of his blue-pill and his liver complaint, he must 
have died of loneliness. He was lazy, peevish, and a bon- 
vivant ; the appearance of a lady frightened him beyond 
measure ; hence it was but seldom that he joined the pater- 
nal circle in Russell Square, where there was plenty of gay- 
ety, and where the jokes of his good-natured old father 



REBECCA IS IN PRESENCE OF THE ENEMY. 2^ 

frightened his amour propre. His bulk caused Joseph much 
anxious thought and alarm ; now and then he would make a 
desperate attempt to get rid of his superabundant fat ; but his 
indolence and love of good living speedily got the better of 
these endeavors at reform, and he found himself again at his 
three meals a day. He never was well dressed ; but he took 
the hugest pains to adorn his big person, arid passed many 
hours daily in that occupation. His valet made a fortune out 
of his wardrobe ; his toilet-table w^as covered with as many 
pomatums and essences as ever were employed by an old 
beauty ; he had tried, in order to give himself a waist, every 
girth, stay, and waistband then invented. Like most fat men, 
he would have his clothes made too tight, and took care they 
should be of the most brilliant colors and youthful cut. When 
dressed at length, in the afternoon, he would issue forth tO' 
take a drive with nobody in the park ; and then would 
come back in order to dress again and go and dine with. 
nobody at the Piazza Coffee-House. He was as vain as a 
girl ; and perhaps his extreme shyness was one of the results 
of his extreme vanity. If Miss Rebecca can get the better of 
him^ and at her first entrance into life, she is a young person 
of no ordinary cleverness. 

The first move showed considerable skill. When she called 
Sedley a very handsome man, she knew that Amelia would 
tell her mother, who would probabl}^ tell Joseph, or who, 
at any rate, would be pleased by the compliment paid to her 
son. All mothers are. If you had told Sycorax that her son 
Caliban was as handsome as Apollo, she would have been 
pleased, witch as she was. Perhaps, too, Joseph Sedley would 
overhear the compliment — Rebecca spoke loud enough — and 
he ^/^hear, and (thinking in his heart that he was a very fine 
man) the praise thrilled through every fibre of his big body, 
and made it tingle with pleasure. Then, however, came a 
recoil. " Is the girl making fun of me ?" he thought, and 
straightway he bounced toward the bell, and was for retreat- 
ing, as we have seen, when his father's jokes and his mother's 
entreaties caused him to pause and stay where he was. He 
conducted the young lady down to dinner in a dubious and 
agitated frame of mind. " Does she really think I am hand- 
some ?" thought he, " or is she only making game of me ?" 
We have talked of Joseph Sedley being as vain as a girl. 
Heaven help us ! the girls have only to turn the tables, and 
say of one of their own sex, " She is as vain as a man," and 
they will have perfect reason. The bearded creatures are 
quite as eager for praise, quite as finical over their toilets^. 



24 VANITY FAIR. 

quite as proud of their personal advantages, quite as con- 
scious of their powers of fascination, as any coquette in the 
world. 

Down-stairs, then, they went, Joseph very red and blushing, 
Rebecca very modest, and holding her green eyes downward. 
She was dressed in white, with bare shoulders as white as snow 
— the picture of youth, unprotected innocence, and humble 
virgin simplicity. " I must be very quiet," thought Rebecca, 
" and very much interested about India " 

Now we have heard how Mrs. Sedley had prepared a ftne 
curry for her son, just as he liked it, and in the course of din- 
ner a portion of this dish was offered to Rebecca. " What 
is it?" said she, turning an appealing look to Mr. Joseph. 

" Capital," said he. His mouth was full of it : his face 
quite red with the delightful exercise of gobbling. " Mother, 
it's as good as my own curries in India." 

" Oh, I must try some, if it is an Indian dish," said Miss 
Rebecca. " I am sure everything must be good that comes 
from there." 

" Give Miss Sharp some curry, my dear," said Mr. Sedley, 
laughing. 

Rebecca had never tasted the dish before. 
" Do you find it as good as everything else from India ?" 
said Mr. Sedley. 

" Oh, excellent !" said Rebecca, who was suffering tor- 
tures with the cayenne pepper. 

" Try a chili with it. Miss Sharp," said Joseph, really in- 
terested. 

"A chili," said Rebecca, gasping. '* Oh, yes!" She 
thought a chili was something cool, as its name imported, 
and was served with some. " How fresh and green they 
look !" she said, and put one into her mouth. It was hotter 
than the curry ; flesh and blood could bear it no longer. She 
laid down her fork. "Water, for Heaven's sake, water!" 
she cried. Mr. Sedley burst out laughing (he was a coarse 
man from the Stock Exchange, where they love all sorts of 
practical jokes). " They are real Indian, I assure you," 
said he. " Sambo, give Miss Sharp some water." 

The paternal laugh was echoed by Joseph, who thought 
the joke capital. The ladies only smiled a little. They 
thought poor Rebecca suffered too much. She would have 
liked to choke old Sedley, but she swallowed her mortifica- 
tion as well as she had the abominable curry before it, and 
as soon as she could speak, said, with a comical, good- 
humored air, 



REBECCA IS IN PRESENCE OF THE ENEMY. 25 

** I ought to have remembered the pepper which the Prin- 
cess of Persia puts in the cream-tarts in the ' Arabian Nights/ 
Do you put cayenne into your cream-tarts in India, sir?" 

Old Sedley began to laugh, and thought Rebecca was a good- 
humored girl. Joseph simply said, " Cream-tarts, miss ? Our 
cream is very bad in Bengal. We generally use goats' milk ; 
and, 'gad, do you know, Pve got to prefer it !" 

" You won't like eveijthmg from India now, Miss Sharp," 
said the old gentleman ; but when the ladies had retired after 
dinner, the wily old fellow said to his son, " Have a care, Joe ; 
that girl is setting her cap at you." 

" Pooh ! nonsense !" said Joe, highly flattered. " I recol- 
lect, sir, there was a girl at Dumdum, a daughter of Cutler of 
the Artillery, and afterward married to Lance, the surgeon, 
who made a dead set at me in the year '4 — at me and Mullig- 
atawney, whom I mentioned to you before dinner — a devil- 
ish good fellow Mulligatawney — he's a magistrate at Budge, 
budge, and sure to be in council in five years. Well, sir^ 
the Artillery gave a ball, and Quintin, of the King's Four- 
teenth, said to me, ' Sedley,' said he, ' I bet you thirteen to 
ten that Sophy Cutler hooks either you or Mulligatawney 
before the rains.' ' Done,' says I ; and egad, sir — this claret's 
very good. Adamson's or Carbonell's ?" ... 

A slight snore was the only reply : the honest stock-broker 
was asleep, and so the rest of Joseph's story was lost for that 
day. But he was always exceedingly communicative in a 
man's party, and has told this delightful tale many scores of 
times to his apothecary. Dr. GoUop, when he came to inquire 
about the liver and the blue-pill. 

Being an invalid, Joseph Sedley contented himself with a 
bottle of claret besides his Madeira at dinner, and he 
managed a couple of platefuls of strawberries and cream, 
and twenty-four little rout-cakes that were lying neglected 
in a plate near him, and certainly (for novelists have the 
privilege of knowing everything) he thought a great deal 
about the girl up-stairs. " A nice, gay, merry young crea- 
ture," thought he to himself. " How she looked at me when 
I picked up her handkerchief at dinner ! She dropped it 
twice. Who's that singing in the drawing-room ? 'Gad ! 
shall I go up and see ?" 

But his modesty came rushiog upon him with uncontrollable 
force. His father was asleep ; his hat was in the hall ; there 
was a hackney-coach-stand hard by in Southampton Row. 
" I'll go and see the Forty Thieves^'" said he, " and Miss De- 
camp's dance ;" and he slipped away gently on the pointed 



?.6 



VANITY FAIR, 



toes of his boots, and disappeared, without waking his worthy 
parent. 

' There goes Joseph," said Amelia, who was looking from 
the open windows of the drawing-room, while Rebecca was 
singing at the piano. 

" Miss Sharp has frightened him away," said Mrs. Sedley. 
'' Poor Joe, why will he be so shy ?" 




THE GREEN SILK PURSE. 



27 



CHAPTER IV. 



THE GREEN SILK PURSE. 




OOR Joe's panic lasted for two 
or three days ; during which he 
did not visit the house, nor dur- 
ing that period did Miss Rebec- 
ca ever mention his name. She 
was all respectful gratitude to 
Mrs. Sedley, delighted beyond 
measure at the bazaars, and in 
a whirl of wonder at the the- 
atre, whither the good-natured 
lady took her. One day Amelia 
had a headache, and could not 
go upon some party of pleasure 
to which the two young people 
were invited : nothing could induce her friend to go without 
her. "What! you who have shown the poor orphan what 
happiness and love are for the first time in her life— quit j^'^^^ .? 
never !" and the green eyes looked up to heaven and filled 
v^ith tears ; and Mrs. Sedley could not but own that her daugh- 
ter's friend had a charming kind heart of her own. 

As for Mr. Sedley's jokes, Rebecca laughed at them with a 
cordiality and perseverance which not a little pleased and 
softened that good-natured gentleman. Nor was it with the 
chiefs of the family alone that Miss Sharp found favor. She 
interested Mrs. Blenkinsop by evincing the deepest sympathy 
in the raspberry-jam preserving, which operation was then 
going on in the housekeeper's room ; she persisted in calling 
Sambo " Sir" and " Mr. Sambo," to the delight of that at- 
tendant ; and she apologized to the lady's maid for giving 
her trouble in venturing to ring the bell, with such sweetness 
and humility that the Servants' Hall was almost as charmed 
with her as the Drawing-Room. 

Once, in looking over some drawings which Amelia had 
sent from school, Rebecca suddenly came upon one which 
caused her to burst into tears and leave the room. It was 
on the day when Joe Sedley made his second appearance. 



2S VANITY FAIR. 

Amelia hastened after her friend to know the cause of this 
display of feeling, and the good-natured girl came back with- 
out her companion, rather affected too. " You know her 
father was our drawing-master, mamma, at Chiswick, and 
used to do all the best parts of our drawings." 

" My love ! I'm sure I always heard Miss Pinkerton say that 
he did not touch them — he only ?noimted them." 

" It was called mounting, mamma. Rebecca remembers 
the drawing, and her father working at it, and the thought 
of it came upon her rather suddenly — and so, you know, 
she — " 

" The poor child is all heart," said Mrs. Sedley. 
" I wish she could stay with us another week," said Ame- 
lia. 

" She's devilish like Miss Cutler that I used to meet at Dum- 
dum, only fairer. She's married now to Lance, the Artillery 
surgeon. Do you know, ma'am, that once Quintin, of the 
Fourteenth, bet me — " 

" Oh, Joseph, we know that story," said Amelia, laughing. 
" Never mind about telling that ; but persuade mamma to 
write to Sir Somebody Crawley for leave of absence for poor 
dear Rebecca : here she comes, her eyes red with weeping." 

" I'm better now," said the girl, with the sweetest smile 
possible, taking good-natured Mrs. Sedley's extended hand 
and kissing it respectfully. " How kind you all are to me I 
All," she added, with a laugh, " except you, Mr. Joseph." 

" Me !" said Joseph, meditating an instant departure. 
" Gracious Heavens ! Good Gad ! Miss Sharp !" 

" Yes ; how could you be so cruel as to make me eat that 
horrid pepper-dish at dinner, the first day I ever saw you ? 
You are not so good to me as dear Amelia." 
" He doesn't know you so well," cried Amelia. 
" I defy anybody not to be good to you, my dear," said 
her mother. 

" The curry was capital ; indeed it was," said Joe, quite 
gravely. " Perhaps there was ?z^/ enough citron juice in it; 
no, there was 7iot.'" 
" And the chilis ?" 

" By Jove, how they made you cry out I" said Joe, caught 
by the ridicule of the circumstance, and exploding in a fit 
of laughter which ended quite suddenly, as usual. 

" I shall take care how I let you choose for me another 
time," said Rebecca, as they went down again to dinner. 
" I didn't think men were fond of putting poor harmless 
girls to pain." 



THE GREEN SILK PURSE. 29 

" By Gad, Miss Rebecca, I wouldn't hurt you for the 
world." 

" No," said she, " I know you wouldn't ;" and then she 
gave him ever so gentle a pressure with her little hand, and 
drew it back quite frightened, and looked first for one instant 
in his face, and then down at the carpet-rods ; and I am not 
prepared to say that Joe's heart did not thump at this little 
involuntary, timid, gentle motion of regard on the part of the 
simple girl. 

It was an advance, and as such, perhaps, some ladies of 
indisputable correctness and gentility will condemn the ac- 
tion as immodest ; but, you see, poor dear Rebecca had all 
this work to do for herself. If a person is too poor to keep a 
servant, though ever so elegant, he must sweep his own rooms ; 
if a dear girl has no dear mamma to settle matters with the 
young man, she must do it for herself. And oh, what a 
mercy it is that these women do not exercise their powers of- 
tener I We can't resist them, if they do. Let them show 
ever so little inclination, and men go down on their knees at 
once ; old or ugly, it is all the same. And this I set down as 
a positive truth. A woman with fair opportunities, and with- 
out an absolute hump, may marry " whom she likes. Only 
let us be thankful that the darlings are like the beasts of the 
field, and don't know their own power. They would over- 
come us entirely if they did. 

" Egad !" thought Joseph, entering the dining-room, " I 
exactly begin to feel as I did at Dumdum with Miss Cutler." 
Many sweet little appeals, half tender, half jocular, did Miss 
Sharp make to him about the dishes at dinner ; for by this 
time she was on a footing of considerable familiarity with the 
family, and as for the girls, they loved each other like sisters. 
Young unmarried girls always do, if they are in a house to- 
gether for ten days. 

As if bent upon advancing Rebecca's plans in every way, 
what must Amelia do but remind her brother of a promise 
made last Easter holidays — " When I was a girl at school," 
said she, laughing — a promise that he, Joseph, would take 
her to Vauxhall. " Now," she said, " that Rebecca is with 
us, will be the very time." 

" Oh, delightful !" said Rebecca, going to clap her hands ; 
but she recollected herself, and paused, like a modest crea- 
ture, as she was. 

" To-night is not the night," said Joe. 

** Well, to-morrow." 

** To-morrow your papa and I dine out," said Mrs. Sedley. 



30 VANITY FAIR. 

" You don't suppose that /'m going, Mrs. Sed. ?" said her 
husband, " and that a woman of your years and size is to 
catch cold in such an abominable damp place ?" 

" The children must have some one with them," cried Mrs. 
Sedley. 

"Let Joe go," said his father, laughing. "He's big 
enough." At which speech even Mr. Sambo at the sideboard 
burst out laughing, and poor fat Joe felt inclined to become 
a parricide almost. 

" Undo his stays !" continued the pitiless old gentleman. 
" Fling some water in his face, Miss Sharp, or carry him 
up-stairs : the dear creature's fainting. Poor victim ! carry 
him up ; he's as light as a feather !" 

" If he stand this, sir, I'm d — !" roared Joseph. 
" Order Mr. Jos's elephant, Sambo !" cried the father. 
" Send to Exeter 'Change, Sambo ;" but seeing Jos ready 
almost to cry with vexation, the old joker stopped his laugh- 
ter, and said, holding out his hand to his son, " It's all fair 
on the Stock Exchange, Jos — and, Sambo, never mind the 
elephant, but give me and Mr. Jos a glass of champagne. 
Boney himself hasn't got such in his cellar, my boy !" 

A goblet of champagne restored Joseph's equanimity, and 
before the bottle was emptied, of which, as an invalid, he 
took two thirds, he had agreed to take the young ladies to 
Vauxhall. 

" The girls must have a gentleman apiece," said the old 
gentleman. " Jos will be sure to leave Emmy in the crowd, 
he will be so taken up with Miss Sharp here. Send to 96, and 
ask George Osborne if he'll come." 

At this, I don't know in the least for w^hat reason, Mrs. 
Sedley looked at her husband and laughed. Mr. Sedley's eyes 
twinkled in a manner indescribably roguish, and he looked at 
Amelia ; and Amelia, hanging down her head, blushed as 
only young ladies of seventeen know how to blush, and as 
Miss Rebecca Sharp never blushed in her life — at least not 
since she was eight years old, and when she was caught steal- 
ing jam out of a cupboard by her godmother. " Amelia 
had better write a note," said her father ; " and let George 
Osborne see what a beautiful handwriting we have brought 
back from Miss Pinkerton's. Do you remember when you 
wrote to him to come on Twelfth-night, Emmy, and spelled 
twelfth without the f ?" 

" That was years ago," said Amelia. 

" It seems like yesterday, don't it, John ?" said Mrs. Sed- 
ley to her husband ; and that night, in a conversation which 



THE GREEN SILK PURSE. 31 



took place in a front room in the second floor, in a sort of tent, 
hung round with chintz of a rich and fantastic India pat- 
tern, and double with, calico of tender rose-color, in the in- 
terior of which species of marquee was a feather-bed, on 
which were two pillows, on which were two round red faces, 
one in a laced nightcap, and one in a simple cotton one, end- 
ing in a tassel — in a curtain lecture, I say, Mrs. Sedley took 
her husband to task for his cruel conduct to poor Joe. 

" It was quite wicked of you, Mr. Sedley," said she, " to 
torment the poor boy so." 

" My dear," said the cotton-tassel in defence of his conduct, 
" Jos is a great deal vainer than you ever were in your life, 
and that's saying a good deal. Though, some thirty years 
ago, in the year seventeen hundred and eighty — what was it ? 
— perhaps you had a right to be vain. I don't say no. But 
I've no patience with Jos and his dandified modesty. It is 
out-Josephing Joseph, my dear, and all the while the boy is 
only thinking of himself, and what a fine fellow he is. I doubt, 
ma'am, we shall have some trouble with him yet. Here is 
Emmy's little friend making love to him as hard as she can ; 
that's quite clear ; and if she does not catch him, some other 
will. That man is destined to be a prey to woman, as I am 
to go on 'Change every day. It's a mercy he did not bring 
us over a black daughter-in-law, my dear. But, mark my 
words, the first woman who fishes for him, hooks him." 

" She shall go off to-morrow, the little artful creature," 
said Mrs. Sedley, with great energy. 

"Why not she as well as another, Mrs. Sedley? The 
girl's a white face at any rate. / don't care who marries him. 
Let Joe please himself." 

And presently the voices of the two speakers were hushed, 
or were replaced by the gentle but unromantic music of the 
nose ; and save when the church-bells tolled the hour and 
the watchman called it, all was silent at the house of John 
Sedley, Esquire, of Russell Square and the Stock Exchange. 

When morning came the good-natured Mrs. Sedley no longer 
thought of executing her threats with regard to Miss Sharp; 
for though nothing is more keen, nor more common, nor more 
justifiable, tlian maternal jealousy, yet she could not bring 
herself to suppose that the little, humble, grateful, gentle 
governess would dare to look up to such a magnificent per- 
sonage as the Collector of Boggley Wollah. The petition, 
too, for an extension of the young lady's leave of absence had 
already been dispatched, and it would be difficult to find a 
pretext for abruptly dismissing her. 



32 , VANITY FAIR, 

And as if all things conspired in favor of the gentle Re- 
becca, the very elements (although she was not inclined at 
first to acknowledge their action in her behalf) interposed to 
aid her. For on the evening appointed for the Vauxhall 
party, George Osborne having come to dinner, and the elders 
of the house having departed, according to invitation, to dine 
with Alderman Balls, at Highbury Barn, there came on such 
a thunder-storm as only happens on Vauxhall nights, and as 
obliged the young people, perforce, to remain at home. Mr. 
Osborne did not seem in the least disappointed at this oc- 
currence. He and Joseph Sedley drank a fitting quantity of 
port wine, tete-a-tete, in the dining-room — during the drinking 
of which Sedley told a number of his best Indian stories, for 
he was extremely talkative in man's society ; and after- 
ward Miss Amelia Sedley did the honors of the drawing- 
room ; and these four young persons pas jd such a comfort- 
able evening together that they declared they were rather 
glad of the thunder-storm than otherwise, which had caused 
them to put off their visit to Vauxhall. 

Osborne was Sedley's godson, and had been one of the fam- 
ily any time these three-and-twenty years. At six weeks old 
he had received from John Sedley a present of a silver cup ; 
at six months old, a coral with gold whistle and bells ; from 
his youth, upward, he was " tipped " regularly by the old 
gentleman at Christmas ; and on going back to school, he re- 
membered perfectly well being thrashed by Joseph Sedley, 
when the latter was a big, svv^aggering hobbledehoy, and 
George an impudent urchin of ten years old. In a word, 
George was as familiar with the family as such daily acts of 
kindness and intercourse could make him. 

" Do you remember, Sedley, what a fury you were in when 
I cut off the tassels of your Hessian boots, and how Miss — 
hem ! — how Amelia rescued me from a beating, by falling 
down on her knees and crying out to her brother Jos not to 
beat little George ?" 

Jos remembered this remarkable circumstance perfectly well, 
but vowed that he had totally forgotten it. 

"Well, do you remember coming down in a gig to Dr. 
Swishtail's to see me, before you went to India, and giving 
me half a guinea and a pat on the head ? I always had an 
idea that you were at least seven feet high, and was quite 
astonished, at your return from India, to find you no taller 
than myself." 

*' How good of Mr. Sedley to go to your school and give 



THE GREEN SILK PURSE. Zl 

you the money !" exclaimed Rebecca, in accents of extreme 
delight. 

" Yes, and after I had cut the tassels of his boots too. Boys 
never forget those tips at school, nor the givers." 

" I delight in Hessian boots," said Rebecca. Jos Sedley, 
who admired his own legs prodigiously, and always wore this 
ornamental chaussure, was extremely pleased at this remark, 
though he drew his legs under his chair as it was made. 

" Miss Sharp !" said George Osborne, "you who are so 
clever an artist, you must make a grand historical picture of 
the scene of the boots. Sedley shall be represented in buck- 
skins, and holding one of the injured boots in one hand ; by 
the other he shall have hold of my shirt-frill. Amelia shall be 
kneeling near him, with her little hands up ; and the picture 
shall have a gram^. allegorical title, as the frontispieces have 
in the Medulla and the spelling-book." 

'* I sha'n't have time to do it here," said Rebecca. " I'll 
do it when — when I'm gone." And she dropped her voice, 
and looked so sad and piteous that everybody felt how cruel 
her lot was, and how sorry they would be to part with her. 

" O that you could stay longer, dear Rebecca !" said Ame- 
lia. 

"Why?" answered the other, still more sadly. "That I 
may be only the more unhap — unwilling to lose you?" And 
she turned away her head. Amelia began to give way to 
that natural infirmity of tears which, as we have said, was one 
of the defects of this silly little thing. George Osborne looked 
at the two young women with a touched curiosity ; and 
Joseph Sedley heaved something very like a sigh out of his big 
chest, as he cast his eyes down toward his favorite Hessian 
boots. 

" Let us have some music, Miss Sedley — Amelia," said 
George, who felt at that moment an extraordinary, almost 
irresistible impulse to seize the above-mentioned young woman 
in his arms, and to kiss her in the face of the company ; and 
she looked at him for a moment, and if I should say that they 
fell in love with each other at that single instant of time I 
should perhaps be telling an untruth, for the fact is that these 
two young people had been bred up by their parents for this 
very purpose, and their banns had, as it were, been read in 
their respective families any time these ten years. They 
went off to the piano, which was situated, as pianos usually 
are, in the back drawing-room ; and as it was rather dark, 
Miss Amelia, in the most unaffected way in the world, put 



34 VANITY FAIR.^ 

her hand into Mr. Osborne's, who, of course, could see the 
way among the chairs and ottomans a great deal better than 
she could. But this arrangement left Mr. Joseph Sedley tete- 
a-tete with Rebecca, at the drawing-room table, where the lat- 
ter was occupied in knitting a green silk purse. 

" There is no need to ask family secrets," said Miss Sharp. 
" Those two have told theirs." 

" As soon as he gets his company," said Joseph, "I be- 
lieve the affair is settled. George Osborne is a capital fel- 
low." 

" And your sister the dearest creature in the world," said 
Rebecca. " Happy the man who wins her !" With this Miss 
Sharp gave a great sigh. 

When two unmarried persons get together, and talk upon 
such delicate subjects as the present, a great deal of confi- 
dence and intimacy is presently established between them. 
There is no need of giving a special report of the conversa- 
tion which now took place between Mr. Sedley and the young 
lady ; for the conversation, as may be judged from the fore- 
going specimen, was not especially witty or eloquent ; it sel- 
dom is in private societies, or anywhere except in very high 
flown and ingenious novels. As there was music in the next 
room, the talk was carried on, of course, in a low and becom- 
ing tone, though, for the matter of that, the couple in the next 
apartment would not have been disturbed had the talking 
been ever so loud, so occupied were they with their own pur- 
suits. 

Almost for the first time in his life, Mr. Sedley found him- 
self talking, without the least timidity or hesitation, to a per- 
son of the other sex. Miss Rebecca asked him a great num- 
ber of questions about India, which gave him an opportunity 
of narrating many interesting anecdotes about that country 
and himself. He described the balls at Government House, 
and the manner in which they kept themselves cool in the 
hot weather, with punkahs, tatties, and other contrivances ; 
and he was very witty regarding the number of Scotchmen 
whom Lord Minto, the Governor-General, patronized ; and 
then he described a tiger-hunt, and the manner in which the 
mahout of his elephant had been pulled off his seat by one 
of the infuriated animals. How delighted Miss Rebecca was 
at the Government balls, and how she laughed at the stories 
of the Scotch aides-de-camp, and called Mr. Sedley a sad, wicked, 
satirical creature ; and how frightened she was at the story o* 
the elephant ! " For your mother's sake, dear Mr. Sediey,'' 



THE GREEN SILK PULSE. 35 

she said, " for the sake of all your friends, promise never to 
go on one of those horrid expeditions." 

" Pooh, pooh. Miss Sharp," said he, pulling up his shirt- 
collars ; " the danger makes the sport only the pleasanter. " 
He had never been but once at a tiger-hunt, when the acci- 
dent in question occurred, and when he was half killed — not 
by the tiger, but by the fright. And as he talked on, he grew 
quite bold, and actually had the audacity to ask Miss Re- 
becca for whom she was knitting the green silk purse ? He 
was quite surprised and delighted at his own graceful, famil- 
iar manner. 

" For any one who wants a purse," replied Miss Re- 
becca, looking at him in the most gentle, winning way. 
Sedley was going to make one of the most eloquent 
speeches possible, and had begun, " Oh, Miss Sharp, how — " 
when some song which was performed in the other room 
came to an end, and caused him to hear his own voice so 
distinctly that he stopped, blushed, and blew his nose in 
great agitation. 

" Did you ever hear anything like your brother's elo- 
quence ?" whispered Mr. Osborne to Amelia. "Why, your 
friend has worked miracles." 

"The more the better," said Miss Amelia; who, like 
almost all women who are worth a pin, was a match-maker. 
in her heart, and would have been delighted that Joseph 
should carry back a wife to India. She had, too, in the 
course of these few days' constant intercourse, warmed into 
a most tender friendship for Rebecca, and discovered a million 
of virtues and amiable qualities in her which she had not per- 
ceived when they were at Chiswick together. For the affec- 
tion of young ladies is of as rapid growth as Jack's bean- 
stalk, and reaches up to the sky in a night. It is no blame 
to them that after marriage this Sehnsucht nach der Liebe sub- 
sides. It is what sentimentalists, who deal in very big words^ 
call a yearning after the ideal, and simply means that 
women are commonly not satisfied until they have husbands 
and children on whom they may centre affections which are 
spent elsewhere, as it were, in small change. 

Having expended her little store of songs, or having stayed 
long enough in the back drawing-room, it now appeared 
proper to Miss Amelia to ask her friend to sing. " You 
would not have listened to me," she said to Mr. Osborne 
(though she knew she was telling a fib), *' had you heard Re- 
becca first." 



30 VANITY FAIR. 

" I give Miss Sharp warning, though," said Osborne, 
" that, right or wrong, I consider Miss Amelia Sedley the 
first singer in the world." 

'* You shall hear," said Amelia ; and Joseph Sedley was 
actually polite enough to carry the candles to the piano. 
Osborne hinted that he should like quite as well to sit in 
the dark ; but Miss Sedley, laughing, declined to bear him 
company any farther, and the two accordingly followed Mr. 
Joseph. Rebecca sang far better than her friend (though of 
course Osborne was free to keep his opinion), and exerted 
herself to the utmost, and, indeed, to the wonder of Amelia, 
who had never known her perform so well. She sang a 
French song, which Joseph did not understand in the least, 
and which George confessed he did not understand, and then 
a number of those simple ballads which were the fashion forty 
years ago, and in which British tars, our King, poor Susan, 
blue-eyed Mary, and the like, were the principal themes. They 
are not, it is said, very brilliant, in a musical point of view, 
but contain numberless good-natured, simple appeals to the 
affections, which people understood better than the milk- 
and-water lagrhne^ sospiri, SiVid felicita of the eternal Donizet- 
tian music with which we are favored nowadays. 

Conversation of a sentimental sort, befitting the subject, was 
carried on between the songs, to which Sambo, after he had 
brought the tea, the delighted cook, and even Mrs. Blenkinsop, 
the housekeeper, condescended to listen on the landing-place. 

Among these ditties was one, the last of the concert, and 
to the following effect : 

" Ah ! bleak and barren was the moor, 

Ah ! loud and piercing was the storm. 
The cottage roof was sheltered sure, 

The cottage hearth was bright and warm — 
An orphan boy the lattice passed, 

And, as he marked its cheerful glow, 
Felt doubly keen the midnight blast, 

And doubly cold the fallen snow. 

** They marked him as he onward prest. 

With fainting heart and weary limb ; 
Kind voices bade him turn and rest. 

And gentle faces welcomed him. 
The dawn is up — the guest is gone. 

The cottage hearth is blazing still ; 
Heaven pity all poor wanderers lone I 

Hark to the wind upon the hill !" 



THE GREEN SILK PURSE, 



37 



It was the sentiment of the before-mentioned words, 
*' When I'm gone," over again. As she came to the last 
words, Miss Sharp's " deep-toned voice faltered." Every- 
body felt the allusion to her departure, and to her hapless or- 
phan state. Joseph Sedley, who was fond of music, and soft- 
hearted, was in a state of ravishment during the performance 
of the song, and profoundly touched at its conclusion. If he 
had had the courage, if George and Miss Sedley had remained, 
according to the former's proposal, in the farther room, Joseph 
.Sedley's bachelorhood would have been at an end, and this 




work would never have been written. But at the close of the 
ditty, Rebecca quitted the piano, and giving her hand to 
Amelia, walked away into the front drawing-room twilight ; 
and, at this moment, Mr. Sambo made his appearance with 
a tray, containing sandwiches, jellies, and some glittering 
glasses and decanters, on which Joseph Sedley's attention 
was immediately fixed. When the parents of the house of 
Sedley returned from their dinner-party, they found the young 
people so busy in talking, that they had not heard the arri- 



38 VANITY FAIR. 

val of the carriage, and Mr. Joseph was in the act of saying-^ 
" My dear Miss Sharp, one little teaspoonful of jelly to re- 
cruit you after your immense — your — your delightful exer- 
tions." 

" Bravo, Jos !" said Mr. Sedley ; on hearing the bantering 
of which well-known voice, Jos instantly relapsed into an 
alarmed silence, and quickly took his departure. He did not 
lie awake all night thinking whether or not he was in love with 
Miss Sharp ; the passion of love never interfered with the 
appetite or the slumber of Mr. Joseph Sedley ; but he thought 
to himself how delightful it would be to hear such songs as 
those after Cutcherry — what a distiiiguee girl she was — how she 
could speak French better than the governor-general's lady 
herself — and what a sensation she would make at the Calcutta- 
balls ! " It's evident the poor devil's in love with me," 
thought he. " She is just as rich as most of the girls whO' 
come out to India. I might go farther and fare worse,, 
egad !" And in these meditations he fell asleep. 

How Miss Sharp lay awake, thinking, will he come or not: 
to-morrow ? need not be told here. To-morrow came, and, 
as sure as fate, Mr. Joseph Sedley made his appearance before 
luncheon. He had never been known before to confer such, 
an honor on Russell Square. George Osborne was somehow 
there already (sadly " putting out" Amelia, who was writing 
to her twelve dearest friends at Chiswick Mall), and Rebecca 
was employed upon her yesterday's work. As Joe's buggy 
drove up, and while, after his usual thundering knock and 
pompous bustle at the door, the ex-collector of Boggley Wol- 
lah labored up-stairs to the drawing room, knowing glances 
were telegraphed between Osborne and Miss Sedley. and the 
pair, smiling archly, looked at Rebecca, who actually blushed 
as she bent her fair rmglets over her knitting. How her 
heart beat as Joseph appeared — Joseph, puffing from the stair- 
case in shining creaking boots — Joseph, in a new waistcoat^ 
red with heat and nervousness, and blushing behind his 
wadded neckcloth. It was a nervous moment for all ; and 
as for Amelia, I think she was m.ore frightened than even the 
people most concerned. 

Sambo, who flung open the door and announced Mr. Joseph, 
followed grinning, in the collector's rear, and bearing two- 
handsome nosegays of flowers, which the monster had actually 
had the gallantry to purchase in Covent Garden Market that 
morning — they were not as big as the hay-stacks which ladies 
carry about with them nowadays, in cones of filigree paper ; 



THE GREEN SILK PURSE. 39 

but the young women were delighted with the gift, as Joseph 
presented one to each, with an exceedingly solemn bow. 

" Bravo, Jos !" cried Osborne. 

" Thank you, dear Joseph," said Amelia, quite ready to kiss 
her brother, if he were so minded. (And I think for a kiss from 
such a dear creature as Amelia, I would purchase all Mr. 
Lee's conservatories out of hand.) 

** O heavenly, heavenly flowers !" exclaimed Miss Sharp, 
and smelled them delicately, and held them to her bosom, and 
cast up her eyes to the ceiling, in an ecstasy of admiration. 
Perhaps she just looked first into the bouquet, to see whether 
there was a billet-doux hidden among the flowers ; but there 
was no letter. 

" Do they talk the language of flowers at Boggley Wollah, 
Sedley ?" asked Osborne, laughing. 

*' Pooh, nonsense !" replied the sentimental youth. ''Bought 
'em at Nathan's ; very glad you like 'em ; and eh, Amelia, 
my dear, I bought a pineapple at the same time, which I 
gave to Sambo. Let's have it for tiffin ; very cool and nice 
this hot weather." Rebecca said she had never tasted a pine 
and longed beyond everything to taste one. 

So the conversation went on. I don't know on what pre- 
text Osborne left the room, or why, presently, Amelia went 
away — perhaps to superintend the slicing of the pineapple ; 
but Jos was left alone with Rebecca, who had resumed her 
work, and the green silk and the shining needles were quiv- 
ering rapidly under her white slender fingers. 

"What a beautiful, byoo-ootiful song that was you sang 
last night, dear Miss Sharp," said the collector. " It made 
me cry almost ; 'pon my honor it did." 

" Because you have a kind heart, Mr. Joseph ; all the Sed- 
leys have, I think." 

"It kept awake last night, and I was trying to hum it 
this morning, in bed ; I was, upon my honor. GoUop, my 
doctor, came in at eleven (for I'm a sad invalid, you know, 
and see GoUop every day), and, 'gad ! there I was, singing 
away like — a robin." • 

" O you droll creature ! Do let me hear you sing it." 

"Me? No, you, Miss Sharp; my dear Miss Sharp, do 
sing it." 

" Not now, Mr. Sedley," said Rebecca, with a sigh. " My 
spirits are not equal to it ; besides, I must finish the purse. 
Will you help me, Mr. Sedley ?" And before he had time to 
ask how, Mr. Joseph Sedley, of the East India Company's 
service, was actually seated tete-a-tete with a young lady, 



40 



VANITY FAIR. 



looking at her with a most killing expression ; his arms 
stretched out before her in an imploring attitude, and 
his hands bound in a web of green silk, which she was 
unwinding. 

# * * * ¥r * * 

In this romantic position Osborne and Amelia found the 
interesting pair, when they entered to announce that tiffin 
w^as ready. The skein of silk was just wound round the card ; 
but Mr. Jos had never spoken. 

" I am sure he will to-night, dear," Amelia said, as she 
pressed Rebecca's hand ; and Sedley, too, had communed 
with his soul, and said to himself, " 'Gad, I'll pop the ques- 
tion at Vauxhall." 




DOBBIN OF OURS. 



41 



CHAPTER V. 



DOBBIN OF OURS. 




UFF'S fight with Dobbin, and 
the unexpected issue of that 
contest, will long be remember- 
ed by every man who was edu- 
cated at Dr. Svvrishtail's famous 
school. The latter youth (who 
used to be called Heigh-ho 
Dobbin, Gee-ho Dobbin, and 
by many other names indica- 
tive of puerile contempt) was 
the quietest, the clumsiest, and 
as it seemed, the dullest of 
all Dr. Swishtail's young gen- 
tlemen. His parent was a gro- 
cer in the city ; and it was bruited abroad that he was ad- 
mitted into Dr. Swishtail's academy upon what are called 
" mutual principles" — that is to say, the expenses of his board 
and schooling were defrayed by his father in goods, not 
money ; and he stood there — almost at the bottom of the 
school— in his scraggy corduroys and jacket, through the 
seams of which his great big bones were bursting — as the 
representative of so many pounds of tea, candles, sugar, mot- 
tled-soap, plums (of which a very mild proportion was sup- 
plied for the puddings of the establishment), and other com- 
modities. A dreadful day it was for young Dobbin when 
one of the youngsters of the school, having run into the town 
upon a poaching excursion for hardbake and polonies, es- 
pied the cart of Dobbin & Rudge, Grocers and Oilmen, 
Thames Street, London, at the doctor's door, discharging a 
cargo of the wares in which the firm dealt. 

Young Dobbin had no peace after that. The jokes were 
frightful, and merciless against him. " Hullo, Dobbin," one 
wag would say, " here's good news in the paper. Sugars is 
riz, my boy." Another would set a sum — " If a pound of 
mutton-candles cost sevenpence-halfpenny, how much must 



42 VANITY FAIR. 

Dobbin cost ?" and a roar would follow from all the circle of 
young knaves, usher and all, who rightly considered that the 
selling of goods by retail is a shameful and infamous practice, 
meriting the contempt and scorn of all real gentlemen. 

" Your father's only a merchant, Osborne," Dobbin said in 
private to the little boy who had brought down the storm 
upon him. At which the latter replied haughtily, " My 
father's a gentleman, and keeps his carriage ;" and Mr. Wil- 
liam Dobbin retreated to a remote outhouse in the play- 
ground, where he passed a half-holiday in the bitterest sad- 
ness and woe. Who among us is there that does not recollect 
similar hours of bitter, bitter childish grief ? Who feels injus- 
tice ; who shrinks before a slight ; who has a sense of wrong 
so acute, and so glowing a gratitude for kindness, as a gen- 
erous boy ? and how many of those gentle souls do you de- 
grade, estrange, torture, for the sake of a little loose arith- 
metic and miserable dog-latin ? 

Now, William Dobbin, from an incapacity to acquire the 
rudiments of the above language, as they are propounded in 
that wonderful book the Eton Latin Grammar, was com- 
pelled to remain among the very last of Doctor Swishtail's 
scholars, and was " taken down" continually by little fellows 
with pink faces and pinafores when he marched up with the 
lower form, a giant among them, with his downcast, stupe- 
fied look, his dog's-eared primer, and his tight corduroys. 
High and low, all made fun of him. They sewed up those 
corduroys, tight as they were. They cut his bed-strings. 
They upset buckets and benches, so that he might break his 
shins over them, which he never failed to do. They sent him 
parcels, which, when opened, were found to contain the pater- 
nal soap and candles. There was no little fellow but had his 
jeer and joke at Dobbin ; and he bore everything quite pa- 
tiently, and was entirely dumb and miserable. 

Cuff, on the contrary, was the great chief and dandy of 
the Swishtail Seminary. He smuggled wine in. He fought 
the town-boys. Ponies used to come for him to ride home 
on Saturdays. He had his top-boots in his room, in which 
he used to hunt in the holidays. He had a gold repeater, and 
took snuff like the doctor. He had been to the opera, and 
knew the merits of the principal actors, preferring Mr. Kean 
to Mr. Kemble. He could knock you off forty Latin verses 
in an hour. He could make French poetry. What else didn't 
he know, or couldn't he do ? They said even the doctor 
himself was afraid of him. 

Cuff, the unquestioned king of the school, ruled over his 



DOBBIN- OF OURS. 43 

■subjects , and bullied them, with splendid superiority. This 
one blacked his shoes, that toasted his bread ; others would 
fag out, and give him balls at cricket during whole summer 
afternoons. " Figs" was the fellow whom he despised most, 
and with whom, though always abusing him and sneering 
at him, he scarcely ever condescended to hold personal com- 
munication. 

One day in private, the two young gentlemen had had a 
difference. Figs, alone in the school-room, was blundering 
over a home letter, when Cuff, entering, bade him go upon 
some message, of which tarts were probably the subject. 

" I can't," says Dobbin ; '' I want to finish my letter." 

"You can't?" says Mr. Cuff, laying hold of that docu- 
ment (in which many words were scratched out, many were 
misspelled, on which had been spent I don't know how much 
thought and labor and tears ; for the poor fellow was writing 
to his mother, who was fond of him, although she was a 
grocer's wife, and lived in a back parlor in Thames Street). 
" You can't?'' says Mr. Cuff : " I should like to know why, 
pray ? Can't you write to old mother Figs to-morrow ?" 

" Don't call names," Dobbin said, getting off the bench 
very nervous. 

" Well, sir, will you go ?" crowed the cock of the school. 

" Put down the letter," Dobbin replied ; " no gentleman 
readth letterth." 

" Well, now will you go ?" says the other. 

** No, I won't. Don't strike, or I'll thmash you," roars out 
Dobbin, springing to a leaden inkstand, and looking so wicked 
that Mr. Cuff paused, turned down his coat-sleeves again, 
put his hands into his pockets, and walked away with a 
sneer. But he never meddled personally with the grocer's boy 
after that, though we must do him the justice to say he always 
spoke of Mr. Dobbin with contempt behind his back. 

Some time after this interview, it happened that Mr. Cuff, 
on a sunshiny afternoon, was in the neighborhood of poor 
William Dobbin, who was lying under a tree in the play- 
ground, spelling over a favorite copy of the " Arabian 
Nights" which he had — apart from the rest of the school, who 
were pursuing their various sports — quite lonely, and almost 
happy. If people would but leave children to themselves ; 
if teachers would cease to bully them ; if parents would not 
insist upon directing their thoughts and dominating their 
feelings — those feelings and thoughts which are a mystery 
to all (for how much do you and I know of each other, of our 



44 



VANITY FAIR. 



children, of our fathers, of our neighbor, and how far more 
beautiful and sacred are the thoughts of the poor lad or girl 
whom you govern likely to be than those of the dull and 
world-corrupted person who rules him ?) — if, I say, parents 




and masters would leave their children alone a little more, 
small harm would accrue, although a less quantity of as i?i 
prcesenti might be acquired. 

Well, William Dobbin had for once forgotten the world, 
and was away with Sindbad the Sailor in the Valley of Dia- 
monds, or with Prince Ahmed and the Fairy Peribanou in 
that delightful cavern where the prince found her, and whither 
we should all like to make a tour, when shrill cries, as of a 
little fellow weeping, woke up his pleasant reverie ; and look- 
ing up, he saw Cuff before him, belaboring a little boy. 

It was the lad who had peached upon him about the 



DOBBIN OF OURS. 45 

grocer's cart ; but he bore little malice, not at least toward 
the young and small, " How dare you, sir, break the bot- 
tle ?" says Cuff to the little urchin, swinging a yellow cricket- 
stump over him. 

The boy had been instructed to get over the play-ground 
wall (at a selected spot where the broken glass had been re- 
moved from the top, and niches made convenient in the brick) ; 
to run a quarter of a mile ; to purchase a pint of rum-shrub 
on credit ; to brave all the doctor's outlying spies, and to 
clamber back into the play-ground again ; during the perfor- 
mance of which feat his foot had slipped and the bottle was 
broken, and the shrub had been spilled, and his pantaloons had 
been damaged, and he appeared before his employer a per- 
fectly guilty and trembling, though harmless, wretch. 

" How dare you, sir, break it ?" says Cuff ; " you blunder- 
ing little thief You drank the shrub, and now you pretend 
to have broken the bottle. Hold out your hand, sir." 

Down came the stump with a great heavy thump on the 
child's hand. A moan followed. Dobbin looked up. The 
Fairy Peribanou had fled into the inmost cavern with Prince 
Ahmed ; the Roc had whisked away Sindbad the Sailor out 
of the Valley of Diamonds, out of sight, far into the clouds ; 
and there was every-day life before honest William, and a big 
boy beating a little one without cause. 

" Hold out your other hand, sir," roars Cuff to his little 
school-fellow, whose face was distorted with pain. Dobbin 
quivered, and gathered himself up in his narrow old clothes. 
" Take that, you little devil !" cried Mr. Cuff, and down 
came the wicket again on the child's hand. Don't be horri- 
fied, ladies, every boy at a public school has done it. Your 
children will so do and be done by, in all probability. Down 
came the wicket again, and Dobbin started up. 

I can't tell what his motive was. Torture in a public school 
is as much licensed as the knout in Russia. It would be un- 
gentlemanlike (in a manner) to resist it. Perhaps Dobbin's 
foolish soul revolted against that exercise of tyranny, or 
perhaps he had a hankering feeling of revenge in his mind, 
and longed to measure himself against that splendid bully 
and tyrant, who had all the glory, pride, pomp, circumstance, 
banners flying, drums beating, guards saluting, in the place. 
Whatever may have been his incentive, however, up he sprang, 
and screamed out, " Hold off, Cuff, don't bully that child any 
more, or I" 11 — " 

"Or you'll what?" Cuff asked in amazement at this in' 
terruption. " Hold out your hand, you little beast." 



46 VANI7'Y FAIR. 

" I'll give you the worst thrashing you ever had in your life," 
Dobbin said, in reply to the first part of Cuff's sentence ; and 
little Osborne, gasping and in tears, looked up with wonder 
and incredulity at seeing this amazing champion put up 
suddenly to defend him, while Cuff's astonishment was scarce- 
ly less. Fancy our late monarch George III. when he heard 
of the revolt of the North American Colonies ; fancy brazen 
Goliath when little David stepped forward and claimed a 
meeting, and you have the feelings of Mr. Reginald Cuff when 
this rencontre was proposed to him. 

"After school," says he, of course; after a pause and a 
look, as much as to say, " Make your will, and communicate 
your last wishes to your friends between this time and that." 

** As you please," Dobbin said. " You must be my bottle- 
holder, Osborne." 

'* Well, if you like," little Osborne replied ; for you see 
his papa kept a carriage, and he was rather ashamed of his 
champion. 

Yes, when the hour of battle came, he was almost ashamed 
to say, " Go it. Figs ;" and not a single other boy in the place 
uttered that cry for the first two or three rounds of this 
famous combat ; at the commencement of which the scientific 
Cuff, with a contemptuous smile on his face, and as light and 
as gay as if he was at a ball, planted his blows upon his 
adversary, and floored that unlucky champion three times 
running. At each fall there was a cheer, and everybody 
was anxious to have the honor of offering the conqueror a 
knee. 

" What a licking I shall get when it's over !" young Os- 
borne thought, picking up his man. " You'd best give in," 
he said to Dobbin ; " it's only a thrashing, Figs, and you 
know I'm used to it." But Figs, all whose limbs were in a 
quiver, and whose nostrils were breathing rage, put his little 
bottle-holder aside, and went in for a fourth time. 

As he did not in the least know how to parry the blows that 
were aimed at himself, and Cuff had begun the attack on the 
three preceding occasions, without ever allowing his enemy 
to strike. Figs now determined tha^t he would commence the 
engagement by a charge on his own part ; and accordingly, 
being a left-handed man, brought that arm into action, and 
hit out a couple of times with all his might — once at Mr. 
Cuff's left eye, and once on his beautiful Roman nose. 

Cuff went down this time, to the astonishment of the as- 
sembly. " Well hit, by Jove," says little Osborne, with the 



DOBBIN OF OURS. 47 

air of a connoisseur, clapping his man on the back. " Give it 
him with the left, Figs, my boy." 

Figs's left made terrific play during all the rest of the com- 
bat. Cuff went down every time. At the sixth round there 
were almost as many fellows shouting out, " Go it. Figs," as 
there were youths exclaiming, " Go it. Cuff." At the twelfth 
round the latter champion was all abroad, as the saying is, and 
had lost all presence of mind and power of attack or defence. 
Figs, on the contrary, was as calm as a Quaker. His face be- 
ing quite pale, his eyes shining open, and a great cut on his 
under lip bleeding profusely, gave this young fellow a fierce 
and ghastly air, which perhaps struck terror into many spec- 
tators. Nevertheless, his intrepid adversary prepared to 
close for the thirteenth time. 

If I had the pen of a Napier, or a Belt s Life, I should like 
to describe this combat properly. It was the last charge of 
the guard — (that is, it would have been, only Waterloo had 
not yet taken place) — it was Ney's column breasting the hill 
of La Haye Sainte, bristling with ten thousand bayonets, and 
crowned with twenty eagles — it was the shout of the beef-eat- 
ing British, as, leaping down the hill, they rushed to hug the 
enemy in the savage arms of battle — in other words, Cuff 
coming up full of pluck, but quite reeling and groggy, the Fig 
merchant put in his left as usual on his adversary's nose, and 
sent him down for the last time. 

" I think thai will do for him," Figs said, as his opponent 
dropped as neatly on the green as I have seen Jack Spot's ball 
plump into the pocket at billiards ; and the fact is, when time 
was called, Mr. Reginald Cuff was not able, or did not choose, 
to stand up agam. 

And now all the boys set up such a shout for Figs as would 
have made you think he had been their darling champion 
through the whole battle, and as absolutely brought Dr. 
Swishtail out of his study, curious to know the cause of the 
uproar. He threatened to flog Figs violently, of course ; but 
Cuff, who had come to himself by this time, and was wash- 
ing his wounds, stood up and said, " It's my fault, sir — not 
Figs's — not Dobbin's. I was bullying a little boy, and he 
served me right." By which magnanimous speech he not 
only saved his conqueror a whipping, but got back all his as- 
cendency over the boys which his defeat had nearly cost him. 

Young Osborne wrote home to his parents an account of the 
transaction. 



4^ VANITY FAIR. 

" Sugarcane House, Richmond, March, i8 — . 
" Dear Mamm\ : I hope you are quite well. I should be much obliged to 
you to send me acak'- and five shillings. There has been a fight here between 
Cuff & Dobbin, Cuff, you know, was ihe Cock of the School. They fought 
thirteen rounds, and Dobbin Licked. So Cuff is now Only Second Cock. 
The fight was about me. Cuff was licking me for breaking a bottle of milk, 
and Figs wouldn't stand it. We call him Figs because his father is a Grocer 
— Figs & Rudge, Thames St., City — I think as he fought for me you ought 
to buy your Tea & Sugar at his father's. Cuff goes home every Saturday, 
but can't this, because he has 2 Black Eyes. He has a white Pony to come 
and fetch him, and a groom in livery on a bay mare. I wish my Papa would 
let me have a Pony, and I am 

" Your dutiful Son, George Sedley Osborne. 

" P.S. — Give my love to little Emmy. I am cutting her out a Coach in 
cardboard. Please not a seed-cake, but a plum-cake." 

In consequence of Dobbin's victory, his character rose pro- 
digiously in the estimation of all his school-fellows, and the 
name of Figs, which had been a by-word of reproach, be- 
came as respectable and popular a nickname as any other in 
use in the school. "After all, it's not his fault that his 
father's a grocer," George Osborne said, who, though a little 
chap, had a very high popularity among the Swishtail youth ; 
and his opinion was received with great applause. It was 
voted low to sneer at Dobbin about this accident of birth. 
" Old Figs" grew to be a name of kindness and endearment, 
and the sneak of an usher jeered at him no longer. 

And Dobbin's spirit rose with his altered circumstances. 
He made wonderful advances in scholastic learning. The 
superb Cuff himself, at whose condescension Dobbin could 
only blush and wonder, helped him on with his Latin verses ; 
" coached" h'.m in play-hours ; carried him triumphantly out 
of the little-boy class into the middle-sized form; and even 
there got a fair place for him. It was discovered, that al- 
though dull at classical learning, at mathematics he was un- 
commonly quick. To the contentment of all, he passed third 
in algebra, and got a French prize-book at the public mid- 
summer examination. You should have seen his mother's 
face when Telemaque (that delicious romance) was presented 
to him by the doctor in the face of the whole school and 
the parents and company, with an inscription to Gulielmo 
Dobbin, All the boys clapped hands in token of applause 
and sympathy. His blushes, his stumbles, his awkwardness, 
and the number of feet which he crushed as he went back to 
his place, who shall describe or calculate ? Old Dobbin, his 
father, who now respected him for the first time, gave him 
two guineas publicly ; most of which he spent in a general 



DOBBIN OF OURS. 49 

tuckout for the school, and he came back in a tail-coat after 
the holidays. 

Dobbin was much too modest a young fellow to suppose 
that this happy change in all his circumstances arose from 
his own generous and manly disposition ; he chose, from 
some perverseness, to attribute his good fortune to the sole 
agency and benevolence of little George Osborne, to whom 
henceforth he vowed such a love and affection as is only felt 
by children — such an affection as, we read in the charming 
fairy-book, uncouth Orson had for splendid young Valentine 
his conqueror. He flung himself down at little Osborne's 
feet, and loved him. Even before they were acquainted, he 
had admired Osborne in secret. Now he was his valet, his 
dog, his man Friday. He believed Osborne to be the pos- 
sessor of every perfection, to be the handsomest, the brav- 
est, the most active, the cleverest, the most generous of 
created boys. He shared his money with him ; bought him 
uncountable presents of knives, pencil-cases, gold seals, 
toffee, Little Warblers, and romantic books, with large colored 
pictures of knights and robbers, in many of which latter 
you might read inscriptions to George Sedley Osborne, 
Esquire, from his attached friend William Dobbin — the 
which tokens of homage George received very graciously, as 
became his superior merit. 

So that Lieutenant Osborne, when coming to Russell 
Square on the day of the Vauxhall party, said to the ladies, 
" Mrs. Sedley, ma'am, I hope you have room ; I've asked 
Dobbin of ours to come and dine here, and go with us to 
Vauxhall. He's almost as modest as Jos." 

" Modesty ! pooh," said the stout gentleman, casting a 
vainqueur look at Miss Sharp. 

" He is — but you are incomparably more graceful, Sedley," 
Osborne added, laughing. " I met him at the Bedford, when 
I went to look for you ; and I told him that Miss Amelia 
was come home, and that we were all bent on going out 
for a night's pleasuring ; and that Mrs. Sedley' had forgiven 
his breaking the punch-bowl at the child's party. Don't 
you remember the catastrophe, ma'am, seven years ago ?" 

" Over Mrs. Flamingo's crimson silk gown," said good- 
natured Mrs. Sedley. " What a gawky it was ! And his sis- 
ters are not much more graceful. Lady Dobbin was at High- 
bury last night with three of them. Such figures ! my 
dears." 

" The alderman's very rich, isn't he ?" Osborne said archly. 



50 VANITY FAIR. 

" Don't you think one of the daughters would be a good spec 
for me, ma'am ?" 

" You foolish creature ! Who would take you, I should 
like to know, with your yellow face ?" 

" Mine a yellow face ? Stop till you see Dobbin. Why, 
he had the yellow fever three times : twice at Nassau, and 
once at St. Kitts." 

"Well, well; yours is quite yellow enough for us. Isn't 
it, Emmy ?" Mrs. Sedley said ; at which speech Miss Amelia 
only made a smile and a blush ; and looking at Mr. George 
Osborne's pale, interesting countenance, and those beautiful 
black, curling, shining whiskers, which the young gentleman 
himself regarded with no ordinary complacency, she thought 
in her little heart that in His Majesty's army, or in the wide 
world, there never was such a face or such a hero. " I don't 
care about Captain Dobbin's complexion," she said, " or 
about his awkwardness, /shall always like him, I know ;" 
her little reason being that he was the friend and champion of 
George. 

" There's not a finer fellow in the service," Osborne said, 
" nor a better officer, though he is not an Adonis, certainly," 
And he looked toward the glass himself with much naivete^ 
and in so doing caught Miss Sharp's eye fixed keenly upon 
him, at which he blushed a little, and Rebecca thought in her 
heart, " Ah, mon beau Monsieur ! I think I have_>w/r gauge" — 
the little artful minx ! 

That evening, when Amelia came tripping into the drawing- 
room in a white muslin frock, prepared for conquest at Vaux- 
hall, singing like a lark, and as fresh as a rose, a very tall, 
ungainly gentleman, with large hands and feet, and large 
ears, set off by a closely cropped head of black hair, and in 
the hideous military frogged coat and cocked-hat of those 
times, advanced to meet her, and made her one of the clum- 
siest bows that was ever performed by a mortal. 

This was no other than Captain William Dobbin, of His Ma- 
jesty's Regiment of Foot, returned from yellow fever, in 

the West Indies, to which the fortune of the service had 
ordered his regiment, while so many of his gallant comrades 
were reaping glory in the Peninsula. 

He had arrived with a knock so very timid and quiet that it 
was inaudible to the ladies up-stairs ; otherwise, you maybe 
sure Miss Amelia would never have been so bold as to come 
singing into the room. As it was, the sweet fresh little voice 
went right into the captain's heart, and nestled there. When 
she held out her hand for him to shake, before he enveloped it 



DOBBIN OF OURS. 



51 



in his own, he paused, and thought, " Well, is it possible — 
are you the little maid I remember in the pink frock, such a 
short time ago — the night I upset the punch-bowl, just after 
I was gazetted ? Are you the little girl that George Osborne 
said should marry him ? What a blooming young creature 
you seem, and what a prize the rogue has got !" All this he 
thought before he took Amelia's hand into his own, and as he 
let his cocked-hat fall. 

His history since he left school, until the very moment 
when we have the pleasure of meeting him again, although 




not fully narrated, has yet, I think, been indicated sufficiently 
for an ingenious reader by the conversation in the last page. 
Dobbin, the despised grocer, was Alderman Dobbin — Alder- 
man Dobbin was Colonel of the City Light Horse, then 
burning with military ardor to resist the French invasion. 
Colonel Dobbin's corps, in which old Mr. Osborne himself 
was but an indifferent corporal, had been reviewed by the 



52 VANITY FAIR. 

sovereign and the Duke of York ; and the colonel and alder- 
man had been knighted. His son had entered the army, and 
young Osborne followed presently in the same regiment. 
They had served in the West Indies and in Canada. Their 
regiment had just come home, and the attachment of Dobbin 
to George Osborne was as warm and generous now as it had 
been when the two were school-boys. 

So these worthy people sat down to dinner presently. They 
talked about war and glory, and Boney and Lord Welling- 
ton, and the last Gazette. In those famous days every Ga- 
zette had a victory in it, and the two gallant young men 
longed to see their own names in the glorious list, and cursed 
their unlucky fate to belong to a regiment which had been 
away from the chances of honor. Miss Sharp kindled with 
this exciting talk, but Miss Sedley trembled and grew quite 
faint as she heard it. Mr. Jos told several of his tiger-hunt- 
ing stories, finished the one about Miss Cutler and Lance the 
surgeon, helped Rebecca to everything on the table, and 
himself gobbled and drank a great deal. 

He sprang to open the door for the ladies, when they retired, 
with the most killing grace, and coming back to the table, 
filled himself bumper after bumper of claret, which he 
swallowed with nervous rapidity. 

" He's priming himself," Osborne whispered to Dobbin, 
and at length the hour and the carriage arrived for Vaux- 
hall. 



VAUXHALL 53 




CHAPTER VI. 

VAUXHALL. 

KNOW that the tune I am piping is a very 
mild one (although there are some terrific chap- 
ters coming presently), and must beg the good- 
natured reader to remember that we are only 
discoursing at present about a stock-broker's 
family in Russell Square, who are taking walks, 
or luncheon, or dinner, or talking and making 
love, as people do in common life, and with- 
out a single passionate and wonderful incident 
to mark the progress of their loves. The argu- 
ment stands thus : Osborne, in love with Ame- 
lia, has asked an old friend to dinner and to 
Vauxhall ; Jos Sedley is in loVe with Rebecca. Will he 
marry her ? This is the great subject now in hand. 

We might have treated this subject in the genteel, or in 
the romantic, or in the facetious manner. Suppose we had 
laid the scene in Grosvenor Square, with the very same 
adventures, would not some people have listened ? Sup- 
pose we had shown how Lord Joseph Sedley fell in love, 
and the Marquis of Osborne became attached to Lady Ame- 
lia, with the full consent of the Duke, her noble father ; or, 
instead of the supremely genteel, suppose we had resorted to 
the entirely low, and described what was going on in Mr. 
Sedley's kitchen ; how black Sambo was in love with the 
cook (as indeed he was), and how he fought a battle with the 
coachman in her behalf ; how the knife-boy was caught steal- 
ing a cold shoulder of mutton, and Miss Sedley's new femme 
de cha77ibre refused to go to bed without a wax candle : such 
incidents might be made to provoke much delightful laughter, 
and be supposed to represent scenes of " life." Or if, on the 
contrary, we had taken a fancy for the terrible, and made the 
lover of the new femme de chambre a professional burglar, 
who bursts into the house with his band, slaughters black 
Sambo at the feet of his master, and carries off Amelia in 
her night-dress, not to be let loose again till the third volume, 
we should easily have constructed a tale of thrilling interest. 



54 VANITY FAIR. 

through the fiery chapters of which the reader should hurry- 
panting. Fancy this chapter having been headed 

THE NIGHT ATTACK. 

The night was dark and wild ; the clouds black, black, ink- 
black. The wild wind tore the chimney-pots from the roofs 
of the old houses, and sent the tiles whirling and crashing 
through the desolate streets. No soul braved that tempest — 
the watchmen shrank into their boxes, whither the search- 
ing rain followed them — where the crushing thunderbolt 
fell and destroyed them — one had so been slain opposite the 
Foundling. A scorched gaberdine, a shivered lantern, a 
staff rent in twain by the flash, were all that remained of 
stout Will Steadfast. A hackney-coachman had been blown 
off his coach-box, in Southampton Rcw — and whither? But 
the whirlwind tells no tidings of its victim, save his parting 
scream as he is borne onward ! Horrible night ! It was dark, 
pitch dark ; no moon. No, no. No moon. Not a star. 
Not a little feeble, twinkling, solitary star. There had been 
one at early evening, but he showed his face, shuddering, for 
a moment in the black heaven, and then retreated back. 

One, two, three I It is the signal that Black Vizard had 
agreed on. 

" Mofy ! is that your snum ?" said a voice from the area. 
" I'll gully the dag and bimbole the clicky in a snuffkin." 

" Nuffle your clod, and beladle your glumbanions," said 
Vizard, with a dreadful oath. '* This way, men ; if they 
screak, out with your snickers, and slick ! Look to the pew- 
ter-room, Blowser. You, Mark, to the old gaff's mopus box ! 
and I," added he, in a lower but more horrible voice, " I 
will look to Amelia !" 

There was a dead silence. "Ha!" said Vizard," was that 
the click of a pistol ?" 




VA UXHALL. 



55 



Or suppose we adopted the genteel rose-water style. _ The 
Marquis of Osborne has just dispatched his petit tigre with a. 
billet-doux to the Lady Amelia. 




The dear creature has received it from the hands of her 
femme de chambre^ Mademoiselle Anastasie. 




Dear Marquis ! what amiable politeness ! His Lord- 
ship's note contains the wished-for invitation to Devonshire 
House ! 

"Who is that monstrous fine girl?" said the Semillant 
Prince G — rge of C — mbr — dge, at a mansion in Piccadilly, 
the same evening (having just arrived from the omnibus at 
the opera). " My dear Sedley, in the name of all the Cupids, 
introduce me to her !" 

" Her name, Monseigneur^'" said Lord Joseph, bowing 
gravely, " is Sedley." 

" Vous avez alors im bien beau nom^'' said the young prince, 
turning on his heel, rather disappointed, and treading on 



56 VANITY FAIR 

the foot of an old gentleman who stood behind, in deep ad- 
miration of the beautiful Lady Amelia. 

'' Trente mille tonnerres f' shouted the victim, writhing 
under the agonie du moinent. 

" I beg pardon of your Grace," said the young etourdi^ 
blushing, and bending low his fair curls. He had trodden 
on the toe of the great Captain of the age ! 

" O Devonshire !" cried the young prince, to a tall and 
good-natured nobleman, whose features proclaimed him of 
the blood of the Cavendishes. " A word with you ! Have 
you still a mind to part with your diamond necklace ?" 

" I have sold it for two hundred and fifty thousand pounds, 
to Prince Easterhazy here." 

Und das war gar nicht theuer^ potztausend T* exclaimed the 
princely Hungarian, etc., etc., etc. ..... 

Thus you see, ladies, how this story 7Tizght have been writ- 
ten, if the author had but a mind ; for, to tell the truth, he is 
just as familiar with Newgate as with the palaces of our re- 
vered aristocracy, and has seen the outside of both. But as 
I don't understand the language or manners of the Rookery 
nor that polyglot conversation which, according to the fash 
ionable novelists, is spoken by the leaders of to?i, we must, if 
you please, preserve our middle course modestly, amid those 
scenes and personages with which we are most familiar. In 
a word, this chapter about Vauxhall would have been so ex- 
ceeding short but for the above little disquisition, that it 
scarcely would have deserved to be called a chapter at all, 
and yet it is a chapter, and a very important one too. Are 
not there little chapters in everybody's life, that seem to be 
nothing, and yet affect all the rest of the history ? 

Let us, then, step into the coach with the Russell Square 
party, and be off to the Gardens. There is barely room be- 
tween Jos and Miss Sharp, who are on the front seat, Mr. Os- 
borne sitting bodkin opposite, between Captain Dobbin and 
Amelia. 

Every soul in the coach agreed that on that night Jos would 
propose to make Rebecca Sharp Mrs. Sedley. The parents 
at home had acquiesced in the arrangement, though, be- 
tween ourselves, old Mr. Sedley had a feeling very much akin 
to contempt for his son. He said he was vain, selfish, lazy, 
and effeminate. He could not endure his airs as a man of 
fashion, and laughed heartily at his pompous braggadocio 
stories. " I shall leave the fellow half my property," he said, 
"and he will have, besides, plenty of his own ; but as I am 
perfectly sure that if you and I and his sister were to die 



VA UXHALL. 57 

to-morrow, he would say, ' Good Gad ! ' and eat his dinner 
just as well as usual, I am not going to make myself anxious 
about him. Let him marry whom he likes. It's no affair 
of mine." 

Amelia, on the other hand, as became a young woman of 
her prudence and temperament, was quite enthusiastic for 
the match. Once or twice Jos had been on the point of 
saying something very important to her, to which she was 
most willing to lend an ear, but the fat fellow could not 
be brought to unbosom himself of his great secret, and very 
much to his sister's disappointment he only rid himself of 
a large sigh, and turned away. 

This mystery served to keep Amelia's gentle bosom in 
a perpetual flutter of excitement. If she did not speak with 
Rebecca on the tender subject, she compensated herself with 
long and intimate conversations with Mrs. Blenkinsop, the 
housekeeper, who dropped some hints to the lady's-maid, 
who may have cursorily mentioned it to the cook, who car- 
ried the news, I have no doubt, to all the tradesmen, so that 
Mr. Jos's marriage was now talked of by a very considerable 
number of persons in the Russell Square world. 

It was, of course, Mrs. Sedley's opinion that her son would 
demean himself by a marriage with an artist's daughter. 
"But, lor', ma'am," ejaculated Mrs. Blenkinsop, "we was 
only grocers when we married Mr. S., who was a stock-bro- 
ker's clerk, and we hadn't five hundred pounds among us, 
and we're rich enough now." And Amelia was entirely of 
this opinion, to which, gradually, the good-natured Mrs. 
Sedley was brought. 

Mr. Sedley was neutral. " Let Jos marry whom he likes," 
he said, " it's no affair of mine. This girl has no fortune ; 
no more had Mrs. Sedley. She seems good-humored and 
clever, and will keep him in order, perhaps. Better she, my 
dear, than a black Mrs. Sedley, and a dozen of mahogany 
grandchildren." 

So that everything seemed to smile upon Rebecca's for- 
tunes. She took Jos's arm, as a matter of course, on going 
to dinner ; she had sat by him on the box of his open car- 
riage (a most tremendous " buck" he was, as he sat there, 
serene, in state, driving his grays), and though nobody said 
a word on the subject of the marriage, everybody seemed 
to understand it. All she wanted was the proposal, and ah ! 
how Rebecca now felt the want of a mother ! — a dear, ten- 
der mother, who would have managed the business in ten min- 
tes, and, in the course of a little delicate confidential con- 



58 ". VANITY FAIR. 

versation, would have extracted the interesting avowal from 
the bashful lips of the young man ! 

Such was the state of affairs as the carriage crossed West- 
minster bridge. 

The party was landed at the Royal Gardens in due time. As 
the majestic Jos stepped out of the creaking vehicle the crowd 
gave a cheer for the fat gentleman, who blushed and looked 
very big and mighty, as he walked away with Rebecca under 
his arm. George, of course, took charge of Amelia. She 
looked as happy as a rose-tree in sunshine. 

" I say, Dobbin," says George, " just look to the shawls 
and things, there's a good fellow." And so while he paired 
■off with Miss Sedley, and Jos squeezed through the gate into 
the gardens with Rebecca at his side, honest Dobbm contented 
himself by giving an arm to the shawls, and by paying at the 
door for the whole party. 

He walked very modestly behind them. He was not will- 
ing to spoil sport. About Rebecca and Jos he did not care a 
fig. But he thought Amelia worthy even of the brilliant 
George Osborne, and as he saw that good-looking couple 
threading the walks, to the girl's delight and wonder, he 
watched her artless happiness with a sort of fatherly pleasure. 
Perhaps he felt that he would have liked to have something on 
his own arm besides a shawl (the people laughed at seeing 
the gawky young officer carrying this female burden) ; but 
William Dobbin was very little addicted to selfish calculation 
at all, and so long as his friend was enjoying himself, how 
should he be discontented ? And the truth is, that of all the 
•delights of the Gardens — of the hundred thousand extra lamps, 
which were always lighted ; the fiddlers in cocked-hats, who 
played ravishing melodies under the gilded cockle-shell in 
the midst of the gardens ; the singers, both of comic and sen- 
timental ballads, who charmed the ears there ; the country 
dances, formed by bouncing cockneys and cockneyesses, and 
executed amid jumping, thumping, and laughter ; the signal 
which announced that Madame Saqui was about to mount 
skyward on a slack-rope ascending to the stars ; the hermit 
that always sat in the illuminated hermitage ; the dark 
walks, so favorable to the interviews of young lovers ; the 
pots of stout handed about by the people in the shabby old 
liveries ; and the twinkling boxes, in which the happy feasters 
made believe to eat slices of almost invisible ham — of all 
these things, and of the gentle Simpson, that kind, smiling 
idiot, who, I dare say, presided even then over the place, 
Captain William Dobbin did not take the slightest notice. 



VA UXHALL. 59 

He carried about Amelia's white cashmere shawl, and hav- 
ing attended under the gilt cockle-shell while Mrs. Salmon 
performed the Battle of Borodino (a savage cantata against 
the Corsican upstart, who had lately met with his Russian 
reverses), Mr. Dobbin tried to hum it as he walked away, 
and found he was humming the tune which Amelia Sedley 
sang on the stairs as she came down to dinner. 

He burst out laughing at himself, for the truth is he could 
sing no better than an owl. 

It is to be understood, as a matter of course, that our 
young people, being in parties of two and two, made the 
most solemn promises to keep together during the evening, 
and separated in ten minutes afterward. Parties at Vaux- 
hall always did separate, but 'twas only to meet again at 
supper-time, when they could talk cf their mutual adven- 
tures in the interval. 

What were the adventures of Mr. Osborne and Miss Ame- 
lia ? That is a secret. But be sure of this — they were per- 
fectly happy, and correct in their behavior ; and as they had 
been in the habit of being together any time these fifteen 
years, their tete-a-tete offered no particular novelty. 

But when Miss Rebecca Sharp and her stout companion lost 
themselves in a solitary walk, in which there were not above 
five score more of couples similarly straying, they both felt 
that the situation was extremely tender and critical, and now 
or never was the moment, jNIiss Sharp thought, to provoke 
that declaration which was trembling on the timid lips of 
Mr. Sedley. They had previously been to the panorama of 
Moscow, where a rude fellow, treading on Miss Sharp's foot, 
caused her to fall back with a little shriek into the arms of 
Mr. Sedley, and this little incident increa ed the tenderness 
and confidence of that gentleman to such a degree that he 
told her several of his favorite Indian stories over again for, 
at least, the sixth time. 

" How I should like to see India I" said Rebecca. 

''Should you?" said Joseph with a most killing tender- 
ness, and was no doubt about to ^ollow up this artful inter- 
rogatory by a question still more tender (for he puffed and 
panted a great deal, and Rebecca's hand, which was placed 
near his heart, could count the feverish pulsations of that or- 
gan), w^hen oh, provoking I the bell rang for the fireworks, 
and, great scuffling and running taking place, these in- 
teresting lovers were obliged to follow in the stream of 
people. 



6o 



VANITY FAIR. 



Captain Dobbin had some thoughts of joining the party at 
supper, as, in truth, he found the Vauxhall amusements not 
particularly lively — but he paraded twice before the box 
where the now united couples were met, and nobody took 
any notice of him. Covers were laid for four. The mated 
pairs were prattling away quite happily, and Dobbin knew 




.^S^d^-^' 



he was as clean forgotten as if he had never existed in this 
world. 

" I should only be de trop^'" said the captain, looking at 
them rather wistfully. " I'd best go and talk to the hermit ;" 
and so he strolled off out of the hum of men, and noise and 
clatter of the banquet, into the dark walk at the end of 
which lived that well-known pasteboard solitary. It wasn't 
very good fun for Dobbin — and, indeed, to be alone at Vaux- 
hall I have found, from m.y own experience, to be one of the 
most dismal sports ever entered into by a bachelor. 




Mr. Joseph in a State of Excitement. 



1 



VAUXHALL. 61 

The two couples were perfectly happy, then, in their box, 
where the most delightful and intimate conversation took 
place. Jos was in his glory, ordering about the waiters with 
great majesty. He made the salad, and uncorked the cham- 
pagne, and carved the chickens, and ate and drank the greater 
part of the refreshments on the tables. Finally, he insisted 
upon having a bowl of rack punch — everybody had rack punch 
at Vauxhall. " Waiter, rack punch." 

That bowl of rack punch was the cause of all this history. 
And why not a bowl of rack punch as well as any other cause ? 
Was not a bowl of prussic acid the cause of fair Rosamond's 
retiring from the world ? Was not a bowl of wine the cause 
of the demise of Alexander the Great, or, at least, does not 
Dr. Lempriere say so ? — so did this bowl of rack punch in- 
fluence the fates of all the principal characters in this " Novel 
without a Hero," which we are now relating. It influenced 
their life, although most of them did not taste a drop of it. 

The young ladies did not drink it, Osborne did not like 
it, and the consequence was that Jos, that idXgourmand^ drank 
up the whole contents of the bowl ; and the consequence of his 
drinking up the whole contents of the bowl was, a liveliness 
which at first was astonishing, and then became almost pain- 
ful, for he talked and laughed so loud as to bring scores of 
listeners round the box, much to the confusion of the inno- 
cent party within it ; and, volunteering to sing a song (which 
he did in that maudlin high key peculiar to gentlemen in 
an inebriated state), he almost drew away the audience who 
were gathered round the musicians in the gilt scollop-shell, 
and received from his hearers a great deal of applause. 

■' Brayvo, fat un !" said one ; " Angcore, Daniel Lambert !" 
said another ; " What a figure for the tight-rope !" exclaimed 
another wag, to the inexpressible alarm of the ladies, and the 
great anger of Mr. Osborne. 

" For Heaven's sake, Jos, let us get up and go," cried that 
gentleman, and the young women rose. 

" Stop, my dearest diddle-diddle-darling," shouted Jos, now 
as bold as a lion, and clasping Miss Rebecca round the waist. 
Rebecca started, but she could not get away her hand. The 
laughter outside redoubled. Jos continued to drink, to make 
love, and to sing, and, winking and waving his glass grace- 
fully to his audience, challenged all or any to come in and 
take a share of his punch. 

Mr. Osborne was just on the point of knocking down a gen- 
tleman in top-boots, who proposed to take advantage of this 
invitation, and a commotion seemed to be inevitable, when by 



62 VANITY FAIR. 

the greatest good luck a gentleman of the name of Dobbin, 
who had been walking about the gardens, stepped up to the 
box. " Be off, you fools !" said this gentleman, shouldering 
off a great number of the crowd, who vanished presently be- 
fore his cocked-hat and fierce appearance, and he entered 
the box in a most agitated state. 

"Good Heavens ! Dobbin, where have you been?" Os- 
borne said, seizing the white cashmere shawl from his friend's 
arm, and huddling up Amelia in it. " Make yourself useful, 
and take charge of Jos here, while I take the ladies to the car- 
riage." 

Jos was for rising to interfere, but a single push from Os- 
borne's finger sent him pufiing back into his seat again, and 
the lieutenant was enabled to remove the ladies in safety. Jos 
kissed his hand to them as they retreated, and hiccoughed 
out, " Bless you ! bless you !" Then seizing Captain Dob- 
bin's hand, and weeping in the most pitiful way, he confided 
to that gentleman the secret of his loves. He adored that girl 
who had just gone out ; he had broken her heart, he knew he 
had, by his conduct ; he would marry her next morning at 
St. George's, Hanover Square ; he'd knock up the Archbishop 
of Canterbury at Lambeth, he would by Jove ! and have him 
in readiness ; and, acting on this hint, Caplain Dobbin 
shrewdly induced him to leave the gardens and hasten to 
Lambeth Place, and, when once out of the gates, easily con- 
veyed Mr. Jos Sedley into a hackney-coach, which deposited 
him safely at his lodgings. 

George Osborne conducted the girls home in safety, and 
when the door was closed upon them, and as he walked across 
Russell Square, laughed so as to astonish the watchman. 
Amelia looked very ruefully at her friend as they went up- 
stairs, and kissed her, and went to bed without any more 
talking. 

" He must propose to-morrow," thought Rebecca. '' He 
called me his soul's darling, four times ; he squeezed my 
hand in Amelia's presence. He must propose to-morrow." 
And so thought Amelia too. And I dare say she thought 
of the dress she was to wear as bridesmaid, and of the pres- 
ents which she should make to her nice little sister-in-law, 
and of a subsequent ceremony in which she herself might 
play a principal part, etc., and etc., and etc., and etc. 

O ignorant young creatures ! How little do you know the 
effect of rack punch ! What is the rack in the punch at night 



VA UXHALL. 



63 



to the rack in the head of a morning ? To this truth I can 
vouch as a man ; there is no headache in the world like that 
caused by Vauxhall punch. Through the lapse of twenty 
years, I can remember the consequence of two glasses ! — two 
wine glasses ! — but two, upon the honor of a gentleman ; 
and Joseph Sedley, who had a liver complaint, had swallowed 
at least a quart of the abominable mixture. 

That next morning, which Rebecca thought was to dawn 
upon her fortune, found Sedley groaning in agonies which 




the pen refuses to describe. Soda-water was not invented 
yet. Small beer — will it be believed ! — was the only drink 
with which unhappy gentlemen soothed the fever of their 
previous night's potation. With this mild beverage before 
him, George Osborne found the ex-collector of Boggley 
Wollah groaning on the sofa at his lodgings. Dobbin was al- 
ready in the room, good-naturedly tending his patient of the 
night before. The two officers, looking at the prostrate Bac- 
chanalian, and askance at each other, exchanged the most 
frightful sympathetic grins. Even Sedley's valet, the most 
solemn and correct of gentlemen, with the muteness and 
gravity of an undertaker, could hardly keep his countenance 
in order as he looked at his unfortunate master. 

"Mr. Sedley was uncommon wild last night, sir," he 
whispered in confidence to Osborne, as the latter mounted the 
stair. " He wanted to fight the 'ackney-coachman, sir. The 
capting was obliged to bring him up-stairs in his arms like 
a babby." A momentary smile flickered over Mr. Brush's 



64 VANITY FAIR. 

features as he spoke ; instantly, however, they relapsed into 
their usual unfathomable calm, as he flung open the drawing- 
room door, and announced " Mr, Hosbin." 

" How are you, Sedley ?" that young wag began, after sur- 
veying his victim. " No bones broken ? There's a hackney- 
coachman down-stairs with a black eye and a tied-up heaM 
vowing he'll have the law of you." 

" What do you mean— law ?" Sedley faintly asked. 

" For thrashing him last night — didn't he, Dobbin ? You 
hit out, sir, like Molyneax. The watchman says he never saw 
a fellow go down so straight. Ask Dobbin." 

" You ^/^have a round with the coachman," Captain Dob- 
bin said, "and showed plenty of fight, too." 

" And that fellow with the white coat at Vauxhall ! How 
Jos drove at him ! How the women screamed ! By Jove, sir, 
it did my heart good to see you. I thought you civilians 
had no pluck ; but /'// never get in your way when you are in 
your cups, Jos." 

" I believe I'm very terrible when I'm roused," ejaculated 
Jos from the sofa, and made a grimace so dreary and ludi- 
crous that the captain's politeness could restrain him no 
longer, and he and Osborne fired off a ringing volley of 
laughter. 

Osborne pursued his advantage pitilessly. He thought Jos 
a milksop. He had been revolving in his mind the marriage 
question pending between Jos and Rebecca, and was not over- 
well pleased that a member of a family into which he, 
George Osborne, of the — th, was going to marry, should 
make a mesalliance with a little nobody — a little upstart gov- 
erness. " You hit, you poor old fellow !" said Osborne. 
" You terrible ! Why, man, you couldn't stand — you made 
everybody laugh in the gardens, though you were crying your- 
self. You were maudlin, Jos. Don't you remember singing 
a song ?" 
. " A what ?" Jos asked. 

" A sentimental song, and calling Rosa, Rebecca, what's 
her name — Amelia's little friend — your dearest diddle-diddle- 
darling ?" And this ruthless young fellow, seizing hold of 
Dobbin's hand, acted over the scene, to the horror of the 
original performer, and in spite of Dobbin's good-natured 
entreaties to him to have mercy. 

" Why should I spare him ?" Osborne said to his friend's re- 
monstrances, when they quitted the invalid, leaving him under 
the hands of Doctor Gollop. " What the deuce right has he 
to give himself his patronizing airs, and make fools of us 



VA UXHALL. 65 

at Vauxhall ? Who's this little school-girl that is ogling and 
making love to him ? Hang it, the family's low enough al- 
ready without her. A governess is all very well, but I'd 
rather have a lady for my sister-in-law. I'm a liberal man, 
but I've proper pride, and know my own station : let her 
know hers. And I'll take down that great hectoring Nabob, 
and prevent him from being made a greater fool than he is. 
That's why I told him to look out, lest she brought an action 
against him." 

" I suppose you know best," Dobbin said, though rather 
dubiously. "You always were a Tory, and your family's one 
of the oldest in England. But — " 

" Come and see the girls, and make love to Miss Sharp 
yourself," the lieutenant here interrupted his friend ; but 
Captain Dobbin declined to join Osborne in his daily visit 
to the young ladies in Russell Square. 

As George walked down Southampton Row from Holborn, 
he laughed as he saw, at the Sedley mansion, in two different 
stories, two heads on the look-out. 

The fact, is. Miss Amelia, in the drawing-room balcony, 
was looking very eagerly toward the opposite side of the 
square, where Mr. Osborne dwelt, on the watch for the lieu- 
tenant himself ; and Miss Sharp, from her little bedroom on 
the second floor, was in observation until Mr. Joseph's great 
form should heave in sight. 

" Sister Anne is on the watch-tower," said he to Amelia, 
'"but there's nobody coming ;" and laughing and enjoying 
the joke hugely, he described, in the most ludicrous terms, to 
Miss Sedley, the dismal condition of her brother. 

"I think it's very cruel of you to laugh, George," she 
said, looking particularly unhappy ; but George onl)^ laughed 
the more at her piteous and discomfited mien, persisted in 
thinking the joke a most diverting one, and when Miss Sharp 
came down -stairs bantered her with a great deal of liveliness 
upon the effect of her charms on the fat civilian. 

" O Miss Sharp ! if you could but see him this morning," 
he said, " moaning in his flowered dressing-gown — writhing 
on his sofa ; if you could but have seen him lolling out his 
tongue to GoUop the apothecary." 

" See whom ?" said Miss Sharp. 

" Whom ? Oh, whom ? Captain Dobbin, of course, to 
whom we were all so attentive, by the way, last nighi." 

" We were very unkind to him," Emmy said, blushing very 
much. "I — I quite forgot him.' 

*' Of course you did,'' cried Osborne, still on the laugh. 



66 VAAVTV FAIR. 

" One can't be always thinking about Dobbin, you know, 
Amelia. Can one, Miss Sharp ?" 

"Except when he overset the glass of wine at dinner," 
Miss Sharp said, with a haughty air and a toss of the head, 
" I never gave the existence of Captain Dobbin one single 
moment's consideration." 

" Very good. Miss Sharp, I'll tell him," Osborne said ; and 
as he spoke Miss Sharp began to have a feeling of distrust 
and hatred toward this young officer, which he was quite 
unconscious of having inspired. '^ He is to make fun of 
me, is he ?" thought Rebecca. " Has he been laughing about 
me to Joseph ? Has he frightened him ? Perhaps he won't 
come." A film passed over her eyes and her heart beat quite 
quick. 

" You're always joking," said she, smiling as innocently 
as she could. "Joke away, Mr. George; there's nobody 
to defend i7ie.'' And George Osborne, as she walked away, 
and Amelia looked reprovingly at him, felt some little manly 
compunction for having inflicted any unnecessary unkindness 
upon this helpless creature. " My dearest Amelia," said he, 
" you are too good — too kind. You don't know the world. 
I do. And your little friend Miss Sharp must learn her sta- 
tion." 

" Don't you think Jos will — " 

" Upon my word, my dear, I don't know. He may or 
may not. I'm not his master. I only know he is a very fool- 
ish, vain fellow, and put my dear little girl into a very painful 
and awkward position last night. My dearest diddle-did- 
dle-darling !" He was off laughing again ; and he did it so 
drolly that Emmy laughed too 

All that day Jos never came. But Amelia had no fear 
about this ; for the little schemer had actually sent away the 
page, Mr, Sambo's aide-de-camp, to Mr. Joseph's lodgings, 
to ask for some book he had promised, and how he was; 
and the reply through Jos's man, Mr. Brush, was, that h:s 
master was ill in bed, and had just had the doctor with him. 
He must come to-morrow, she thought, but she never had the 
courage to speak a word on the subject to Rebecca, nor did 
that young woman herself allude to it in any way during the 
whole evening after the night at Vauxhall. 

The next day, however, as the two young ladies sate on 
the sofa, pretending to work, or to write letters, or to read 
novels, Sambo came into the room with his us al engaging 
grin, with a packet under his arm and a note on a tray. 
" Note from Mr. Jos, miss," says Sambo. 



VA UXHALL. 



67 



How Amelia trembled as she opened it ! 
So it ran : 

" Dear Amelia : I send you the ' Orphan of the Forest.' I was too ill 
to come yesterday. I leave town to-day for Cheltenham. Pray excuse 
me, if you can, to the amiable Miss Sharp, for my conduct at Vauxhall, and 
entreat her to pardon and forget every word I may have uttered when ex- 
cited by that fatal supper. As soon as I have recovered, for my health is 
very much shaken, 1 shall go to Scotland for some months, and am 

" Truly yours, Jos. Sedley." 




It was the death-warrant. All was over. Amelia did not 
care to look at Rebecca's pale face and burning eyes, but 
she dropped the letter into her friend's lap, and got up, and 
went up-stairs to her room, and cried her little heart out. 

Blenkinsop, the housekeeper, there sought her presently 
with consolation, on whose shoulder Amelia wept confiden- 
tially, and relieved herself a good deal. " Don't take on, 
miss. I didn't like to tell you. But none of us in the house 



68 J\4A'ITY FAIR. 

have liked her, except at fust. I sorher with my own eyes 
reading your ma's letters. Pinner says she's always about 
your trinket-box and drawers, and everybody's drawers, and 
she's sure she's put your white ribbing into her box." 

" I gave it her, I gave it her," said Amelia. 

But this did not alter Mrs. Blenkinsop's opinion of Miss 
Sharp. " I don't trust them governesses, Pinner," she re- 
marked to the maid. " They give themselves the hair and 
hupstarts of ladies, and their wages is no better than you nor 
me." 

It now became clear to every soul in the house, except 
poor Amelia, that Rebecca should take her departure, and 
high and low (always with the one exception) agreed that 
that event should take place as speedily as possible. Our 
good child ransacked all her drawers, cupboards, reticules, 
and gimcrack-boxes — passed in review all her gowns, fichus, 
tags, bobbins, laces, silk stockings, and fallals— selecting this 
thing and that and the other, to make a little heap for Re- 
becca. And going to her papa — that generous British mer- 
chant, who had promised to give her as many guineas as she 
was years old — she begged the old gentleman to give the 
money to dear Rebecca, who must want it, while she lacked 
for nothing. 

She even made George Osborne contribute, and nothing 
loath (for he was as free-handed a young fellow as any in 
the army), he went to Bond Street, and bought the best hat 
and spencer that money could buy. 

"That's George's present to you, Rebecca, dear," said 
Amelia, quite proud of the bandbox conveying these gifts.* 
" What a taste he has ! There's nobody like him " 

" Nobody," Rebecca answered. " How thankful I am to 
him !" She was thinking in her heart, " It was George Os- 
borne who prevented my marriage." And she loved George 
Osborne accordingly. 

She made her preparations for departure with great equa- 
nimity, and accepted all the kind little Amelia's presents, after 
just the proper degree of hesitation and reluctance. She 
vowed eternal gratitude to Mrs. Sedley, of course ; but did 
not intrude herself upon that good lady too much, who was 
embarrassed, and evidently wishing to avoid her. She kissed 
Mr. Sedley's hand when he presented her with the purse, 
and asked permission to consider him for the future as her 

* It was the author's intention, faithful to history, to depict all the charac- 
ters of this tale in their proper costumes, as they wore them at the commence- 



VA UXHALL. 



69 



kind, kind friend and protector. Her behavior was so affect- 
ing that he was going to write her a check for twenty 
pounds more, but he restrained his feelings. The carriage 
was in waiting to take him to dinner, so he tripped away with 
a " God bless you, my dear ; always come here when you come 
to town, you know. Drive to the Mansion House, James." 

Finally came the parting with Miss Amelia, over which pic- 
ture I intend to throw a veil. But after a scene in which 
one person was in earnest and the other a perfect performer — 
after the tenderest caresses, the most pathetic tears, the 
smelling-bottle, and some of the very best feelings of the 
heart, had been called into requisition — Rebecca and Amelia 
parted, the former vowing to love her friend for ever and ever 
and ever. 

ment of the century. But when I remember the appearance of people in 
those days, and that an officer and lady were actually habited like this — 



WSiMS^, 




I have not the heart to disfigure my heroes and heroines by costumes so 
bideous ; and have on the contrarv. engaged a model of rank dressed accord- 
ing to the present fashioi 



70 



VANITY FAIR. 



CHAPTER VII. 



CRAWLEY OF QUEEN S CRAWLEY. 



MONG the most respected of 
the names beginning in C 
which the " Court Guide" 
contained, in the year i8 — , 
was that of Crawley, Sir 
Pitt, Baronet, Great Gaunt 
Street, and Queen's Craw- 
ley, Hants. This honorable 
name had figured constant- 
ly also in the Parliamentary 
List for many years, in con- 
junction with that of a num- 
ber of other worthy gentle- 
men who sat in turns for 
the borough. 

It is related, with regard 
to the borough of Queen's 
Crawley, that Queen Eliza- 
■ beth in one of her prog- 
resses, stopping at Crawley to breakfast, was so delighted with 
some remarkably fine Hampshire beer which was then pre- 
sented to her by the Crawley of the day (a handsome gentle- 
man with a trim beard and a good leg), that she forthwith 
erected Crawley into a borough to send two members to Par- 
liament ; and the place, from the day of that illustrious visit, 
took the name of Queen's Crawley, which it holds up to the 
present moment. And though, by the lapse of time and 
those mutations which age produces in empires, cities, and 
boroughs, Queen's Crawley was no longer so populous a place 
as it had been in Queen Bess's time — nay, was come down to 
that condition of borough which used to be denominated rot- 
ten — yet, as Sir Pitt Crawley would say with perfect justice, 
in his elegant way, " Rotten ! be hanged — it produces me a 
good fifteen hundred a year." 
Sir Pitt Crawley (named after the great Commoner) was the 




CRAWLEY OF QUEEN'S CRAWLEY. 7^ 

son of Walpole Crawley, first baronet, of the Tape and Seal- 
ing- Wax Office in the reign of George II., when he was im- 
peached for peculation, as were a great number of other 
honest gentlemen of those days ; and Walpole Crawley was, 
as need scarcely be said, son of John Churchill Crawley, named 
after the celebrated military commander of the reign of Queen 
Anne. The family tree (which hangs up at Queen's Craw- 
ley) furthermore mentions Charles Stuart, afterward called 
Barebones, Crawley, son of the Crawley of James the First's 
time ; and, finally, Queen Elizabeth's Crawley, who is repre- 
sented as the foreground of the picture, in his forked beard 
and armor. Out of his waistcoat, as usual, grows a tree, on 
the main branches of which the above illustrious names are 
inscribed. Close by the name of Sir Pitt Crawley, Baronet, 
the subject of the present memoir, are written that of his 
brother, the Reverend Bute Crawley (the great Commoner 
was in disgrace when the reverend gentleman was born), rec- 
tor of Crawley-cum-Snailby, and of various other male and 
female members of the Crawley family. 

Sir Pitt was first married to Grizzel, sixth daughter of Mun- 
go Binkie, Lord Binkie, and cousin, in consequence, of Mr. 
Dundas. She brought him two sons — Pitt, named not so 
much after his father as after the heaven-born minister, and 
Rawdon Crawley, from the Prince of Wales's friend, whom 
his Majesty George IV. forgot so completely. Many years 
after her ladyship's demise. Sir Pitt led to the altar Rosa, 
daughter of Mr. G. Dawson, of Mudbury, by whom he had 
two daughters, for whose benefit Miss Rebecca Sharp was 
now engaged as governess. It will be seen that the young 
lady was come into a family of very genteel connections, and 
was about to move in a much more distinguished circle than 
that humble one which she had just quitted in Russell 
Square. 

She had received her orders to join her pupils, in a note 
which was written upon an old envelope, and which contained 
the following words : 

" Sir Pitt Crawley begs Miss Sharp and Daggidge may be hear on Tues- 
day, as I leaf for Queen's Crav/ley tomorrow morning erly. 
" Great Gaunt Street." 

Rebecca had never seen a baronet, as far as she knew, and 
as soon as she had taken leave of Amelia, and counted the 
ffuineas which good-natured Mr. Sedley had put into a purse 
-or her, and as soon as she had done wiping her eyes with her 



72 VANITY FAIR. 

handkerchief (which operation she concluded the very moment 
the carriage had turned the corner of the street), she began to 
depict in her own mind what a baronet must be. *' I wonder 
does he wear a star ?" thought she, " or is it only lords that 
wear stars ? But he will be very handsomely dressed in a 
court suit, with ruffles, and his hair a little powdered, like Mr. 
Wroughton at Covent Garden. I suppose he will be awfully 
proud, and that I shall be treated most contemptuously. 
Still I must bear my hard lot as well as I can — at least I shall 
be 2imor\g gentlefolks, and not with vulgar City people ;" and 
she fell to thinking of her Russell Square friends with that very 
same philosophical bitterness with which, in a certain apo- 
logue, the fox is represented as speaking of the grapes. 

Having passed through Gaunt Square into Great Gaunt 
Street, the carriage at length stopped at a tall gloomy house 
between two other tall gloomy houses, each with a hatch- 
ment over the middle drawing-room window, as is the 
custom of houses in Great Gaunt Street, in which gloomy 
locality death seems to reign perpetual. The shutters of 
the first-floor windows of Sir Pitt's mansion were closed — 
those of the dining-room were partially open — and the blinds 
neatly covered up in old newspapers. 

John, the groom, who had driven the carriage alone, did not 
care to descend to ring the bell, and so prayed a passing milk- 
boy to perform that office for him. When the bell was rung, 
a head appeared between the interstices of the dining-room 
shutters, and the door was opened by a man in drab breeches 
and gaiters, with a dirty old coat, a foul old neckcloth lashed 
round his bristly neck, a shining bald head, a leering red face, 
a pair of twinkling gray eyes, and a mouth perpetually on the 
grin 

This Sir Pitt Crawley's ?" says John, from the box. 

Ees," says the man at the door, with a nod. 

Hand down these 'ere trunks, then," said John. 

Hand 'm down yourself," said the porter. 

Don't you see I can't leave my bosses ? Come, bear a 
hand, my fine feller, and miss will give you some beer," said 
John, with a horse-laugh, for he was no longer respectful to 
Miss Sharp, as her connection with the family was broken 
off, and as she had given nothing to the servants on coming 
away. 

The bald-headed man, taking his hands out of his breeches- 
pockets, ?,dvanced on this summons, and throwing Miss Sharp's 
trunk over his shoulder, carried it into the house. 

" Take this basket and shawl, if you please, and open the 



CRAWLEY OF QUEEN'S CRAWLEY. 73 

door," said Miss Sharp, and descended from the carriage in 
much indignation. " I shall write to Mr. Sedley and inform 
him of your conduct," said she to the groom. 

" Don't," replied that functionary. " I hope you've forgot 
nothink ? Miss 'Melia's gownds — have you got them — as the 
lady's-maid was to have 'ad ? I hope they'll fit you. Shut 
the door, Jim, you'll get no good out of '^r," continued John, 
pointing with his thumb toward Miss Sharp ; " a bad lot, I 
tell you, a bad lot;" and so saying, Mr. Sedley's groom 
drove away. The truth is, he was attached to the lady's-maid 
in question, and indignant that she should have been robbed 
of her perquisites. 

On entering the dining-room, by the orders of the indi- 
vidual in gaiters, Rebecca found that apartment not more 
cheerful than such rooms usually are, when genteel fam- 
ilies are out of town. The faithful chambers seem, as it were, 
to mourn the absence of their masters. The turkey carpet 
has rolled itself up and retired sulkily under the sideboard, 
the pictures have hidden their faces behind old sheets of 
brown paper, the ceiling lamp is muffled up in a dismal sack 
of brown holland, the window-curtains have disappeared 
under all sorts of shabby envelopes, the marble bust of Sir 
Walpole Crawley is looking from its black corner at the bare 
boards and the oiled fire-irons and the empty card-racks ov^er 
the mantelpiece ; the cellaret has lurked away behind the 
carpet, the chairs are turned up heads and tails along the 
walls, and in the dark corner opposite the statue is an old- 
fashioned crabbed knife-box, locked and sitting on a dumb- 
waiter. 

Two kitchen chairs and a round table and an attenuated 
old poker and tongs were, however, gathered round the fire- 
place, as was a saucepan over a feeble, sputtering fire. There 
was a bit of cheese and bread and a tin candlestick on the 
table, and a little black porter in a pint-pot. 

" Had your dinner, I suppose ? It is not too warm for you ? 
Like a drop of beer?" 

" Where is Sir Pitt Crawley .?" said Miss Sharp majesti- 
cally. 

" He, he ! /'m Sir Pitt Crawley. Reklect you owe me a 
pint for bringing down your luggage. He, he ! Ask Tinker 
if I a'n't. Mrs. Tinker, Miss Sharp ; Miss Governess, Mrs. 
Charwoman. Ho, ho !" 

The lady addressed as Mrs. Tinker at this moment made 
her appearance with a pipe and a paper of tobacco, for which 
she had been dispatched a minute before Miss Sharp's arri- 



74 



VANITY FAIR. 



articles over to Sir Pitt, who had 

you three- 



val ; and she handed the 
taken his seat by the fire. 

" Where's the farden ?" said he. " I gave 
halfpence. Where's the change, old Tinker?" 

" There !" replied Mrs. Tinker, flinging down the coin ; 
" it's only baronets as cares about farthings," 

" A farthing a day is seven shillings a year," answered the 
M,P. ; " seven shillings a year is the interest of seven guin- 




eas. Take care of your farthings, old Tinker, and your guin- 
eas will come quite nat'ral." 

" You may be sure it's Sir Pitt Crawley, young woman," 
said Mrs. Tinker surlily, " because he looks to his farthings. 
You'll know him better afore long." 

** And like me none the worse. Miss Sharp," said the old 
gentleman, with an air almost of politeness. " I must be just 
before I'm generous." 




Rebecca makes Acquaintance with a Live Baronet. 



CRAWLEY OF QUEEN'S CRAWLEY. 75 

" He never gave away a farthing in his life," groveled 
Tinker. 

" Never, and never will — it's against my principle. Go and 
get another chair from the kitchen, Tinker, if you want to sit 
down, and then we'll have a bit of supper." 

Presently the baronet plunged a fork into the saucepan on 
the fire, and withdrew from the pot a piece of tripe and an on- 
ion, which he divided into pretty equal portions, and of which 
he partook with Mrs. Tinker. " You see, Miss Sharp, when 
I'm not here Tinker's on board wages ; when I'm in town she 
dines with the family. Haw ! haw ! I'm glad Miss Sharp's 
not hungry, a'n't you, Tink ?" And they fell to upon their 
frugal supper. 

After supper Sir Pitt Crawley began to smoke his pipe, and 
when it became quite dark he lighted the rushlight in the 
tin candlestick, and producing from an interminable pocket 
a huge mass of papers, began reading them, and putting them 
in order. 

" I'm here on law business, my dear, and that's how it hap- 
pens that I shall have the pleasure of such a pretty travelling 
companion to-morrow." 

" He's always at law business," said Mrs. Tinker, taking up 
the pot of porter. 

" Drink and drink about," said the baronet. " Yes, my dear. 
Tinker is quite right : I've lost and won more lawsuits than 
any man in England. Look here at Crawley, Bart., v. Snaffle. 
I'll throw him over, or my name's not Pitt Crawley. Podder 
and another versus Crawley, Bart. Overseers of Snaily Par- 
ish against Crawley, Bart. They can't prove it's common : 
I'll defy 'em ; the land's mine. It no more belongs to the 
parish than it does to you or Tinker here. I'll beat 'em if it 
cost me a thousand guineas. Look over the papers ; you 
may if you like, my dear. Do you write a good hand ? I'll 
make you useful when we're at Queen's Crawley, depend on 
it. Miss Sharp. Now the dowager's dead I want some one." 

' * She was as bad as he, ' ' said Tinker. ' ' She took the law of 
everyone of her tradesmen, and turned away forty-eight foot- 
men in four years." 

" She was close — very close," said the baronet simply ; 
" but she was a valyble woman to me, and saved me a stew- 
ard." And in this confidential strain, and much to the 
amusement of the new-comer, the conversation continued for 
a considerable time. Whatever Sir Pitt Crawley's qualities 
might be, good or bad, he did not make the least disguise of 
them. He talked- of himself incessantly, sometimes in the 



76 VANITY FAIR. 

coarsest and vulgarest Hampshire accent, sometimes adopting 
the tone of a man of the world. And so, with injunctions to 
Miss Sharp to be ready at five in the morning, he bade her 
good-night. "You'll sleep with Tinker to-night," he said ; 
" it's a big bed, and there's room for two. Lady Crawley 
died in it. Good-night." 

Sir Pitt went off after this benediction, and the solemn 
Tinker, rushlight in hand, led the way up the great bleak stone 
stairs, past the great dreary drawing-room doors, with the 
handles muffled up in paper, into the great front bedroom 
where Lady Crawley had slept her last. The bed and cham- 
ber were so funereal and gloomy you might have fancied 
not only that Lady Crawley died in the room, but that her 
ghost inhabited it. Rebecca sprang about the apartment, 
however, with the greatest liveliness, and had peeped into 
the huge wardrobes and the closets and the cupboards, and 
tried the drawers which were locked, and examined the 
dreary pictures and toilet appointments, while the old char- 
woman was saying her prayers. " I shouldn't like to sleep 
in this yeer bed without a good conscience, miss," said the 
old woman. " There's room for us and a half dozen of 
ghosts in it," says Rebecca. " Tell me all about Lady Craw- 
ley and Sir Pitt Crawley, and everybody, my dear Mrs. 
Tinker." 

But old Tinker was not to be pumped by this little cross- 
questioner ; and signifying to her that bed was a place for 
sleeping, not conversation, set up in her corner of the bed 
such a snore as only the nose of innocence can produce. Re- 
becca lay awake for a long, long time, thinking of the mor- 
row, and of the new world into which she was going, and 
of her chances of success there. The rushlight flickered in 
the basin. The mantelpiece cast up a great black shadow 
over half of a mouldy old sampler, which her defunct ladyship 
had worked, no doubt, and over two little family pictures 
of young lads, one in a college gown, and the other in a red 
jacket like a soldier. When she went to sleep Rebecca chose 
that one to dream about. 

At four o'clock, on such a roseate summer's morning as 
even made Great Gaunt Street look cheerful, the faithful 
Tinker, having wakened her bedfellow and bid her prepare 
for departure, unbarred and unbolted the great hall-door (the 
clanging and clapping whereof startled the sleeping echoes in 
the street), and taking her way into Oxford Street, summoned 
a coach from a stand there. It is needless to particularize the 



CRAWLEY OF QUEEN'S CRAWLEY. 77 

number of the vehicle, or to state that the driver was stationed 
thus early in the neighborhood of Swallow Street in hopes 
that some young buck, reeling homeward from the tavern, 
might need the aid of his vehicle, and pay him with the gen- 
erosity of intoxication. 

It is likewise needless to say that the driver, if he had any 
such hopes as those above stated, was grossly disappointed, 
and that the worthy baronet whom he drove to the city did 
not give him one single penny more than his fare. It was 
in vain that Jehu appealed and stormed, that he flung down 
Miss Sharp's bandboxes in the gutter at the 'Necks, and swore 
he would take the law of his fare. 

'* You'd better not," said one of the ostlers ; " it's Sir Pitt 
Crawley." 

"So it is, Joe," cried the baronet approvingly ; " and I'd 
like to see the man can do me." 

" So should oi," said Joe, grinning sulkil}^, and mounting 
the baronet's baggage on the roof of the coach. 

" Keep the box for me. Leader," exclaims the member 
of Parliament to the coachman, who replied, " Yes, Sir Pitt," 
with a touch of his hat, and rage in his soul (for he had prom- 
ised the box to a young gentleman from Cambridge, who 
would have given a crown to a certainty), and Miss Sharp 
was accommodated with a back seat inside the carriage, 
which might be said to be carrying her into the wide world. 

How the young man from Cambridge sulkily put his five 
great-coats in front, but was reconciled when little Miss Sharp 
was made to quit the carriage, and mount up beside him, 
when he covered her up in one of his Benjamins, and be- 
came perfectly good-humored ; how the asthmatic gentleman, 
the prim lady, who declared upon her sacred honor she 
had never travelled in a public carriage before (there is al- 
ways such a lady in a coach — alas ! was ; for the coaches, 
where are they ?), and the fat widow with the brandy-bot- 
tle, took their places inside ; how the porter asked them all 
for money, and got sixpence from the gentleman and five 
greasy halfpence from the fat widow ; and how the carriage 
at length drove away — now threading the dark lanes of Al- 
dersgate, anon clattering by the Blue Cupola of St. Paul's, 
jingling rapidly by the strangers' entry of Fleet Market, 
which, with Exeter 'Change, has now departed to the world 
of shadows ; how they passed the White Bear in Piccadilly, 
and saw the dew rising up from the market-gardens ot 
Knightsbridge ; how Turnham Green, Brentford, Bagshot, 
were passed — need not be told here. But the writer of these 



78 



VANITY FAIR. 



pages, who has pursued in former days, and in the same 
bright weather, the same remarkable journey, cannot but 
think of it witli a sweet and tender regret. Where is the road 
now, and its merry incidents of life ? Is there no Chelsea or 
Greenwich for the old, honest, pimple-nosed coachmen ? I 
wonder where are the , those good fellows ? Is old Weller 
alive or dead ? and the waiters, yea, and the inns at which 




they waited, and the cold rounds of beef inside, and the 
stunted ostler, with his blue nose and clinking pail, where is 
he, and where is his generation ? To those great geniuses 
now in petticoats, who shall write novels for the beloved read- 
er's children, these men and things will be as much legend 
and history as Nineveh, or Coeur de Lion, or Jack Sheppard. 
For them stage-coaches will have become romances — a team 
of four bays as fabulous as Bucephalus or Black Bess. Ah, 
how their coats shone as the stable-men pulled their clothes 
off, and away they went — ah ! how their tails shook as with 



CRAWLEY OF QUEEN'S CRAWLEY. 



19 



smoking sides at the stage's end they demurely walked away 
into the inn-yard ! Alas ! we shall never hear the horn sing 
at midnight, or see the pike-gates fly open any more. Whither, 
however, is the light four-inside Trafalgar coach carrying us ? 
Let us be set down at Queen's Crawley without further di- 
vagation, and see how Miss Rebecca Sharp speeds there. 




8o 



VANITY FAIR. 




CHAPTER VIII. 



PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL. 



Miss Rebecca Sharp to Miss Amelia Sedley, Russell Square^ London. 
(Free. — Pitt Crawley.) 



"My Dearest, Sweetest Amelia: 

" With what mingled joy and sorrow do I take up the pen to write to my 
dearest friend ! Oh, what a change between to-day and yesterday ! Now 
I am friendless and alone ; yesterday I was at home, in the sweet company 
of a sister, whom I shall ever, ever cherish ! 

" I will not tell you in what tears and sadness I passed the fatal night in 
which I separated from you. You went on Tuesday to joy and happiness, 
with your mother and your devoted young soldier by your side ; and I thought 
of you all night, dancing at the Perkins's, the prettiest, I am sure, of all 
the young ladies at the Ball. I was brought by the groom in the old car- 
riage to Sir Pitt Crawley's town house, where, after John the groom had 
behaved most rudely and insolently to me (alas ! 'twas safe to insult 
poverty and misfortune I), I was given over to Sir P. 's care, and made to 
pass the night in an old gloomy bed, and by the side of a horrid gloomy 



PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL. Zi 

old charwoman, who keeps the house. I did not sleep one single wink the 
whole night. 

" Sir Pitt is not what we silly girls, when we used to read Cecilia at Chis- 
wick, imagined a baronet must have been. Anything, indeed, less like Lord 
Orville cannot be imagined Fancy an old, stumpy, short, vulgar, and very 
dirty man, in old clothes and shabby old gaiters, who smokes a horrid pipe, 
and cooks his own horrid supper in a saucepan. He speaks with a country 
accent, and swore a great deal at the old charwoman, at the hackney 
coachman who drove us to the inn where the coach went from, and on which 
I made the journey outside for the greater part of the way. 

" I was awakened at daybreak by the charwoman, and having arrived at 
the inrr, was at first placed inside the coach. But when we got to a place 
called Leakington, where the rain began to fall very heavily — will you be- 
lieve it ? — I was forced to come outside ; for Sir Pitt is a proprietor of the 
coach, and as a passenger came at Mudbury, who wanted an inside place, 
I was obliged to go outside in the rain, where, however, a young gentleman 
from Cambridge College sheltered me very kindly in one of his several great- 
coats. 

" This gentleman and the guard seemed to know Sir Pitt very well, and 
laughed at him a great deal. They both agreed in calling him an old screiv ; 
which means a very stingy, avaricious person. He never gives any money 
to anybody, they said (and this meanness I hate) ; and the young gentle- 
man made me remark that we drove very slow for the last two stages on 
the road, because Sir Pitt was on the box, and because he is proprietor of 
the horses for this part of the journey. ' But won't I flog 'em on to Squash- 
more when I take the ribbons ? ' said the young Cantab. ' And sarve 'em 
right, Master Jack,' said the guard. When I comprehended the meaning of 
this phrase, and that Master Jack intended to drive the rest of the way, 
and revenge himself on Sir Pitt's horses, of course I laughed too. 

" A carriage and four splendid horses, covered with armorial bearings, how- 
ever, awaited us at Mudbury, four miles from Queen's Crawley, and we made 
our entrance to the baronet's park in state. There is a fine avenue of a mile 
long leading to the house, and the woman at the lodge-gate (over the pillars 
of which are a serpent and a dove, the supporters of the Crawley arms) made 
us a number of courtesies as she flung open the old iron carved doors, which 
are something like those at odious Chiswick. 

" ' There's an avenue,' said Sir Pitt, ' a mile long. There's six thousand 
pound of timber in them there trees. Do you call that nothing ? ' He pro- 
nounced avenue, evenue, and nothing, nothink, so droll ; and he had a Mr. 
Hodson, his hind from Mudbury, into the carriage with him, and they talked 
about distraining, and selling up, and draining and subsoiling, and a great 
deal about tenants and farming — much more than I could understand. Sam 
Miles had been caught poaching, and Peter Bailey had gone to the work- 
house at last. ' Serve him right,' said Sir Pitt ; ' him and his family has been 
cheating me on that farm these hundred and fifty years.' Some old tenant, 
I suppose, who could not pay his rent. Sir Pitt might have said, ' he and his 
family ' to be sure ; but rich baronets do not need to be careful about gram- 
mar, as poor governesses must be. 

" As we passed, I remarked a beautiful church-spire rising above some old 
elms in the park ; and befoi-e them, in the midst of a lawn, and some out- 
houses, an old red house with tall chimneys covered with ivy, and the win- 
dows shining in the sun. ' Is that your church, sir ? ' I said. 

" * Yes, hang it,' said Sir Pitt (only he used, dear, a much wickeder tvora) ; 
* how's Buty, Hodson ? Buty's my brother Bute, my dear — my brother the 
parson. Buty and the Beast I call him, ha, ha ! ' 



82 VANITY FAIR. 

" Hodson laughed too, and then looking more grave and nodding his head, 
said, ' I'm afraid he's better, Sir Pitt. He was out on his pony yesterday, 
looking at our corn.' 

*' ' Looking after his tithes, hang 'un' (only he used the same wicked word). 
' Will brandy and water never kill him ? He's as tough as old whatdyecallum 
— old Methusalem.' 

" Mr. Hodson laughed again. ' The young men is home from college. 
They've whopped John Scroggins till he's well nigh dead.' 

" ' Whop my second keeper ! ' roared out Sir Pitt. 

'■ ' He was on the parson's ground, sir,' replied Mr. Hodson ; and Sir Pitt 
in a fury swore that if he ever caught 'em poaching on his ground, he'd trans- 
port 'em, by the lord he would. However, he said, * I've sold the presenta- 
tion of the living, Hodson ; none of that breed shall get it, I war'nt ; ' and 
Mr. Hodson said he was quite right ; and I have no doubt from this that the 
two brothers are at variance — as brothers often are, and sisters too. Don't 
you remember the two Miss Scratchleys at Chiswick, how they used always 
to fight and quarrel — and Mary Box, how she was always thumping Louisa ? 

" Presently, seeing two little boys gathering sticks in the wood, Mr. Hod- 
son jumped out of the carriage, at Sir Pitt's order, and rushed upon them 
with his whip. ' Pitch into 'em, Hodson,' roared the baronet ; ' flog their 
little souls out, and bring 'em up to the house, the vagabonds ; I'll commit 
'em as sure as my name's Pitt' And presently we heard Mr. Hodson'swhip 
cracking on the shoulders of the poor little blubbering wretches, and Sir Pitt, 
seeing that the malefactors were in custody, drove on to the hall. 

" All the servants were ready to meet us, and 



" Here, my dear, I was interrupted last night by a dreadful thumping at 
my door : and who do you think it was ? Sir Pitt Crawley in his night-cap 
and dressing-gown — such a figure ! As I shrank away from such a visitor, he 
came forward and seized my candle. ' No candles, after eleven o'clock. Miss 
Becky,' said he. ' Go to bed in the dark, }OU pretty little hussy ' (that is 
what he called me), ' and unless you wish me to come for the candle every 
night, mind and be in bed at eleven.' And with this, he and Mr. Horrocks the 
butler went off laughing. You may be sure I shall not encourage any more 
of their visits. They let loose two immense bloodhounds at night, which 
all last night were yelling and howling at the moon. ' I call the dog Gorer,' 
said Sir Pitt ; ' he's killed a man that dog has, and is master of a bull, and 
the mother I used to call Flora ; but now I calls her Aroarer, for she's too 
old to bite. Haw, haw ! ' 

" Before the house of Queen's Crawley, which is an odious old-fashioned 
red-brick mansion, with tall chimneys and gables of the style of Queen Bess, 
there is a terrace flanked by the family dove and serpent, and on which the 
great hall-door opens. And oh, my dear, the great hall I am sure is as big and 
as glum as the great hall in the dear castle of Udolpho. It has a large fire- 
place, in which we might put half Miss Pinkerton's school, and the grate is 
big enough to roast an ox at the very least. Round the room hang I don't 
know how many generations of Crawleys, some with beards and ruffs, some 
with huge wigs and toes turned out, some dressed in long straight stays and 
gowns that look as stiff as towers, and some with long ringlets, and oh, my 
dear ! scarcely any stays at all. At one end of the hall is the great staircase 
all in black oak, as dismal ,as may be, and on either side are tall doors with 
stags' heads over them, leading to the billiard-room and the library, and the 
great yellow saloon and the morning-rooms. I think there are at least 
twenty bedrooms on the first floor ; one of ihem has the bed in which Queen 



PRIVATE -AND CONFIDENTIAL. 83 

Elizabeth slept ; and I have been taken by my new pupils through all these 
fine apartments this morning. They are not rendered less gloomy, I prom- 
ise you, by having the shutters always shut ; aad there is scarce one of the 
apartments, but when the light was let into it, I expected to see a ghost in 
the room. We have a school-room on the second floor, with my bedroom 
leading into it on one side, and that of the young ladies on the other. Then 
there are Mr. Pitt's apartments— Mr. Crawley, he is called — the eldest son, 
and Mr. Rawdon Crawley's rooms — he is an officer like somebody, and away 
with his regiment. There is no want of room I assure you. You might lodge 
all the people in Russell Square in the house, I think, and have space to spare. 
" Half an hour after our arrival the great dinner-bell was rung, and I 
came down with my two pupils (they are very thin, insignificant little chits 
of ten and eight years old). I came down in your dear muslin gown (about 
which that odious Mrs. Pinner was so rude, because you gave it me) ; for I 
am to be treated as one of the family, except on company days, v/hen the 
young ladies and I are to dine up-stairs. 

" Well, the great dinner-bell rang, and we all assembled in the little draw- 
ing-room where my Lady Crawley sits. She is the second Lady Crawley, 
and mother of the young ladies. She was an ironmonger's daughter, and 
her marriage was thought a great match. She looks as if she had been 
handsome once, and her eyes are always weeping for the loss of her beauty. 
She is pale and meagre and high-shouldered, and has not a word to say for 
herself, evidently. Her step-son, Mr. Crawley, was likewise in the room. 
He was in full dress, as pompous as an undertaker. He is pale, thin, ugly, 
silent ; he has thin legs, no chest, hay-colored whiskers, and straw-colored 
hair. He is the very picture of his sainted mother over the mantelpiece — 
Griselda of the noble house of Binkie. 

" ' This is the new governess, Mr. Crawley,' said Lady Crawley, coming 
forward and taking my hand. ' Miss Sharp.' 

" ' Oh ! ' said Mr. Crawley, and pushed his head once forv/ard, and began 
again to read a great pamphlet with which he was busy. 

" ' I hope you will be kind to my girls,' said Lady Crawley, with her pink 
eyes always full of tears. 

" ' Law, ma, of course she will,' said the eldest ; and I saw at a glance that 
I need not be afraid of that woman. 

" ' My lady is served,' says the butler in black, in an immense white shirt 
frill, that looked as if it had been one of the Queen Elizabeth's ruffs depict- 
ed in the hall ; and so, taking Mr. Crawley's arm, she led the way to the 
dining-room, whither I followed with my little pupils in each hand. 

" Sir Pitt was already in the room with a silver jug. He had just been to 
the cellar, and was in full dress too — that is, he had taken his gaiters off, and 
showed his little dumpy legs in black worsted stockings. The sideboard 
was covered with glistening old plate — old cups, both gold and silver ; old 
salvers and cruet-stands, like Rundell and Bridge's shop. Everything on 
the table was in silver too, and two footmen, with red hair and canary-col- 
ored liveries, stood on either side of the sideboard. 

" Mr. Crawley said a long grace, and Sir Pitt said amen, and the great 
silver dish-covers were removed. 

" ' What have we for dinner, Betsy ? 'said the baronet. 

" ' Mutton broth, I believe, Sir Pitt,' answered Lady Crawley. 

" ' Mouton aux navets,' added the butler gravely (pronounce^ if you 
please, moutongonavvy) ; ' and the soup is potage de mouton a V Ecossaise. 
The side-dishes contain pommes de tej^'e aic naturel and choufleur a V eau. ' 

" ' Mutton's mutton,* said the baronet, ' and a devilish good thing. What 
sMp was it, Horrocks, and when did you kill ? * 



84 



VANITY FAIR. 



" ' One of the black-faced Scotch, Sir Pitt : we killed on Thursday.* 

" * Who took any ?" 

" ' Steel, of Mudbury, took the saddle and two legs. Sir Pitt ; but he says 
the last was too young and confounded woolly, Sir Pitt.' 

" ' Will you take some polage, Miss ah — Miss Blunt r ' said Mr. Crawley. 

" ' Capital Scotch broth, my dear,' said Sir Pitt, ' though they call it by a 
French name.' 




" ' I believe it is the custom, sir, in decent society,' said Mr, Crawley 
haughtily, ' to call the dish as I have called it ; ' and it was served to us on 
silver soup-plates by the footmen in the canary coats, with the mouion aux 
navets. Then * ale and water ' were brought and served to us young ladies 
in wine-glasses. I am not a judge of ale, but I can say with a clear con- 
science I prefer water. 

" While we were enjoying our repast, Sir Pitt took occasion to ask what 
had become of the shoulders of the mutton. 

" * I believe they were eaten in the servants' hall,' said my lady, humbly. 

" ' They was, my lady,' said Horrocks, ' and precious little else we get 
there neither.' 

" Sir Pitt burst into a horse-laugh and continued his conversation with Mr. 
Horrocks. ' That there little black pig of the Kent sow's breed must be un- 
common fat now.' 



PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL. 85 

" ' It's not quite busting, Sir Pitt,' said the butler with the gravest air, at 
which Sir Pitt, and with him the young ladies, this time, began to laugh vio- 
lently. 

" ' Miss Crawley, Miss Rose Crawley,' said Mr. Crawley, ' vour laughter 
strikes me as being exceedingly out of place.' 

" ' Never mind, my lord,' said the baronet, ' we'll try the porker on Sat- 
urday. Kill un on Saturday morning, John Horrocks. Miss Sharp adores 
pork, don't you. Miss Sharp ? ' 

"And I think this is all the conversation that I remember at dinner. 
When the repast was concluded a jug of hot water was placed before Sir 
Pitt, with a case-bottle containing, I believe, rum. Mr. Horrocks served 
myself and my pupils with three little glasses of wine, and a bumper was 
poured out for my lady. When we retired, she took from her work-drawer 
an enormous interminable piece of knitting ; the young ladies began to play 
at cribbage with a dirty pack of cards. We had but one candle lighted, but 
it was in a magnificent old silver candlestick, and after a very few questions 
from mv lady, I had my choice of amusement between a volume of sermons 
and a pamphlet on the corn-laws, which Mr. Crawley had been reading before 
•dinner. 

" So we sat for an hour until steps were heard. 

" ' Put away the cards, girls,' cried my lady, in a great tremor ; * put down 
Mr. Crawley's books. Miss Sharp ; ' and these orders had been scarcely 
obeyed when Mr. Crawley entered the room. 

"'We will resume yesterday's discourse, young ladies,' said he, ' and 
you shall each read a page by turns ; so that Miss a — Miss Short may have 
an opportunity of hearing you ; ' and the poor girls began to spell a long 
•dismal sermon delivered at Bethesda Chapel, Liverpool, on behalf of the mis- 
sion for the Chickasaw Indians. Was it not a charming evening ? 

" At ten the servants were told to call Sir Pitt and the household to pray- 
ers. Sir Pitt came in first, very much flushed, and rather unsteady in his 
gait ; and after him the butler, the canaries, Mr. Crawley's man, three other 
men, smelling very much of the stable, and four women, one of whom, I 
remarked, was very much overdressed, and who flung me a look of great 
scorn as she plumped down on her knees. 

" After Mr. Crawley had done haranguing and expounding, we received our 
•candles, and then we went to bed ; and then I was disturbed in my writing, 
as I have described to my dearest, sweetest Amelia. 

" Good-night. A thousand, thousand, thousand kisses ! 

" Saturday. — This morning, at five, I heard the shrieking of the little black 
pig. Rose and Violet introduced me to it yesterday ; and to the stables, and 
to the kennel, and to the gardener, who was picking fruit to send to market, 
and from whom they begged hard a bunch of hot-house grapes ; but he said 
that Sir Pitt had numbered every ' Man Jack ' of them, and it would be as 
much as his place was worth to give any away. The darling girls caught a 
colt in a paddock, and asked me if I would ride, and began to ride them- 
selves, when the groom, coming with horrid oaths, drove them away. 

" Lady Crawley is always knitting the worsted. Sir Pitt is always tipsy, 
every night, and, I believe, sits with Horrocks, the butler. Mr. Crawley al- 
ways reads sermons in the evening, and in the morning is locked up in his 
study, or else rides to Mudbury, on county business, or to Squashmore, 
where he preaches, on Wednesdays and Fridays, to the tenants there. 

" A hundred thousand grateful loves to your dear papa and mamma. Is 
your poor brother recovered of his rack-punch ? Oh, dear ! oh, dear ! How 
men should beware of wicked punch ! 

" Ever and ever thine own Rebecca." 



86 VANITY FAIR. * 

Everything considered, I think it is quite as well for our 
dear Amelia Sedley, in Russell Square, that Miss Sharp and 
she are parted. Rebecca is a droll, funny creature, to be sure ; 
and those descriptions of the poor lady weeping for the loss 
of her beauty, and the gentleman " with hay-colored whiskers 
and straw-colored hair," are very smart, doubtless, and show 
a great knowledge of the world. That she might, when on 
her knees, have been thinking of something better than Miss. 
Horrock's ribbons, has possibly struck both of us. ,But my 
kind reader will please to remember that this history has 
" Vanity Fair" for a title, and that Vanity Fair is a very 
vain, wicked, foolish place, full of all sorts of humbugs and 
falsenesses and pretensions. And while the moralist, who is 
holding forth on the cover* (an accurate portrait of your hum- 
ble servant), professes to wear neither gown nor bands, but 
only the very same long-eared livery in which his congregation 
is arrayed ; yet, look you, one is bound to speak the truth as 
far as one knows it, whether one mounts a cap and bells or 
a shovel hat ; and a deal of disagreeable matter must come 
out in the course of such an undertaking. 

I have heard a brother of the story-telling trade, at Naples, 
preaching to a pack of good-for-nothing honest lazy fellows 
by the sea-shore, work himself up into such a rage and passion 
with some of the villains whose wicked deeds he was describ- 
ing and inventing, that the audience could not resist it ; and 
they and the poet together would burst out into a roar of 
oaths and execrations against the fictitious monster of the 
tale, so that the hat went round, and the bajocchi tumbled 
into it, in the midst of a perfect storm of sympathy. 

At the little Paris theatres, on the other hand, you will 
not only hear the people yelling out " Ahgi^edin ! Ah monstre T' 
and cursing the tyrant of the play from the boxes, but the 
actors themselv^es positively refuse to play the wicked parts, 
such as those of infojnes Anglais^ brutal Cossacks, and what 
not, and prefer to appear at a smaller salary, in their real char- 
acters as loyal Frenchmen. I set the two stories one against 
the other, so that you may see that it is not from mere merce- 
nary motives that the present performer is desirous to show 
up and trounce his villains ; but because he has a sincere 
hatred of them, which he cannot keep down, and which must 
find a vent in suitable abuse and bad language. 

I warn my " kyind friends," then, that I am going to tell a 

* A reference to a woodcut on the cover of the original edition, which is 
printed on page of this edition. 



PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL. 



8/ 



story of harrowing villainy and complicated — but, as I trust, 
intensely interesting — crime. My rascals are no milk-and- 
water rascals, I promise you. When we come to the proper 
places we won't spare fine language — no, no ! But when we 
are going over the quiet country we must perforce be calm. 
A tempest in a slop-basin is absurd. We will reserve that 
sort of thing for the mighty ocean and the lonely midnight. 
The present chapter is very mild. Others — But we will noL 
anticipate those. 

And as we bring our characters forward, I will ask leave, as 
a man and a brother, not only to introduce them, but occa- 
sionally to step down from the platform, and talk about them : 
if they are good and kindly, to love them and shake them by 
the hand ; if they are silly, to laugh at them confidentially in 
the reader's sleeve ; if they are wicked and heartless, to abuse 
them in the strongest terms which politeness admits of. 

'Otherwise you might fancy it was I who was sneering at 
the practice of devotion, which Miss Sharp finds so ridiculous ; 
that it was I who laughed good-humoredly at the reeling old 
Silenus of a baronet — whereas the laughter comes from one 
who has no reverence except for prosperity, and no eye for 
anything beyond success. Such people there are living and 
flourishing in the world — faithless, hopeless, charityless ; let 
us have at them, dear friends, with might and main. Some 
there are, and very successful too, mere quacks and fools, and 
it was to combat and expose such as those, no doubt, that 
Laughter was made. 




88 



VANITY FAIR. 



CHAPTER IX. 



FAMILY PORTRAITS. 




IR.PITT CRAWLEY was a philosopher with 
a taste for what is called low life. His 
first marriage with the daughter of the 
noble Binkie had been made under 
the auspices of his parents ; and as 
he often told Lady Crawley in her 
lifetime she was such a confounded 
quarrelsome high-bred jade that when 
she died he was hanged if he would 
ever take another of her sort, at her 
ladyship's demise he kept his promise, 
and selected for a second wife Miss 
_ Rose Dawson, daughter of Mr. John 
Thomas Dawson, ironmonger, of Mud- 
bury. What a happy woman w^as Rose to be my Lady 
Crawley ! 

Let us set down the items of her happiness. In the first 
place, she gave up Peter Butt, a young man who kept com- 
pany with her, and in consequence of his disappointment in 
love took to smuggling, poaching, and a thousand other 
bad courses. Then she quarrelled, as in duty bound, with all 
the friends and intimates of her youth, who, of course, could 
not be received by my Lady at Queen's Crawley — nor did 
she find in her new rank and abode any persons who were 
willing to welcome her. Who ever did ? Sir Huddleston 
Fuddleston had three daughters who all hoped to be Lady 
Crawley. Sir Giles Wapshot's family were insulted that one 
of the Wapshot girls had not the preference in the marriage, 
and the remaining baronets of the county were indignant at 
their comrade's misalliance. Never mind the commoners, 
whom we will leave to grumble anonymously. 

Sir Pitt did not care, as he said, a brass farden for any one 
of them. He had his pretty Rose, and what more need a man 
require than to please himself? So he used to get drunk every 
night ; to beat his pretty Rose sometimes ; to leave her in 
Hampshire when he went to London for the parliamentary 



FAMILY PORTRAITS. 89 

session, without a single friend in the wide world. Even Mrs. 
Bute Crawley, the rector's wife, refused to visit her, as she 
said she would never give \S\^ pas to a tradesman's daughter. 

As the only endowments with which Nature had gifted Lady 
Crawley were those of pink cheeks and a white skin, and as 
she had no sort of character, nor talents, nor opinions, nor 
occupations, nor amusements, nor that vigor of soul and feroc- 
ity of temper which often falls to the lot of entirely foolish 
women, her hold upon Sir Pitt's affections was not very great. 
Her roses faded out of her cheeks, and the pretty freshness 
left her figure after the birth of a couple of children, and she 
became a mere machine in her husband's house, of no more 
use than the late Lady Crawley's grand piano. Being a light- 
complexioned woman, she wore light clothes, as most blondes 
will, and appeared, in preference, in draggled sea-green or 
slatternly sky-blue. She worked that worsted day and night, 
or other pieces like it. She had counterpanes in the course 
of a few years to all the beds in Crawley. She had a small 
flower-garden, for which she had rather an affection ; but 
beyond this no other like or disliking. When her husband was 
rude to her she was apathetic ; whenever he struck her she 
cried. She had not character enough to take to drinking, and 
moaned about, slip-shod and in curl-papers all day. O 
Vanity Fair ! Vanity Fair ! This might have been, but for 
you, a cheery lass — Peter Butt and Rose a happy man and 
wife, in a snug farm, with a hearty family ; and an honest por- 
tion of pleasures, cares, hopes, and struggles. But a title and 
a coach and four are toys more precious than happiness in 
Vanity Fair ; and if Harry the Eighth or Bluebeard were alive 
now, and wanted a tenth wife, do you suppose he could not 
get the prettiest girl that shall be presented this season ? 

The languid dulness of their mamma did not, as it may be 
supposed, awaken much affection in her little daughters, but 
they were very happy in the servants' hall and in the stables ; 
and the Scotch gardener having luckily a good wife and some 
good children, they got a little wholesome society and instruc- 
tion in his lodge, which was the only education bestowed 
upon them until Miss Sharp came. 

Her engagement was owing to the remonstrances of Mr. 
Pitt Crawley, the only friend or protector Lady Crawley ever 
had, and the only person, besides her children, for whom 
she entertained a little feeble attachment. Mr. Pitt took 
after the noble Binkies, from Avhom he was descended, and 
was a very polite and proper gentleman. When he grew to 
man's estate, and came back from Christchurch, he began to 



90 VANITY FAIR. 

reform the slackened discipline of the hall, in spite of his 
father, who stood in awe of him. He was a man of such rigid 
refinement that he would have starved rather than have dined 
without a white neck-cloth. Once, when just from college, 
and when Horrocks the butler brought him a letter without 
placing it previously on a tray, he gave that domestic a look, 
and administered to him a speech so cutting, that Hor- 
rocks ever after trembled before him ; the whole household 
bowed to him : Lady Crawley's curl-papers came off earlier 
when he was at home : Sir Pitt's muddy gaiters disappeared ; 
and if that incorrigible old man still adhered to other old hab- 
its, he never fuddled himself with rum-and-water in his son's 
presence, and only talked to his servants in a very reserved 
•and polite manner ; and those persons remarked that Sir 
Pitt never swore at Lady Crawley while his son was in the 
room. 

It was he who taught the butler to say, " My lady is served," 
•and who insisted on handing her ladyship in to dinner. He 
seldom spoke to her, but when he did it was with the most 
powerful respect ; and he never let her quit the apartment with- 
out rising in the most stately manner to open the door, and 
making an elegant bow at her egress. 

At Eton he was called Miss Crawley ; and here, I am sorry 
to say, his younger brother Rawdon used to lick him violent- 
ly. But though his parts were not brilliant^ he made up for 
his lack of talent by meritorious industry, and was never 
tnown, during eight years at school, to be subject to that 
punishment which it is generally thought none but a cherub 
•can escape. 

At college his career was of course highly creditable. And 
liere he prepared himself for public life, into which he was to 
b)e introduced by the patronage of his grandfather. Lord 
Binkie, by studying the ancient and modern orators with 
great assiduity, and by speaking unceasingly at the debating 
societies. But though he had a fine flux of words, and de- 
livered his little voice with great pomposity and pleasure to 
himself, and never advanced any sentiment or opinion which 
was not perfectly trite and stale, and supported by a Latin 
quotation ; yet he failed somehow, in spite of a mediocrity 
which ought to have insured any man a success. He did not 
even get the prize poem, which all his friends said he was 
sure of. 

After leaving college he became Private Secretary to Lord 
Binkie, and was then appointed Attache to the Legation at 
Pumpernickel, which post he filled with perfect honor, and 



FAMILY PORTRAITS. 91 

brought home dispatches, consisting of Strasburg pie, to the 
Foreign Minister of the day. After remaining ten years At- 
tache (several years after the lamented Lord Binkie's demise), 
and finding the advancement slov^, he at length gave up 
the diplomatic service in some disgust, and began to turn 
country gentleman. 

He v^rrote a pamphlet on Malt on returning to England (for 
he v^as an ambitious man, and always lil<;ed to be before the 
public), and took a strong part in the Negro Emancipation 
question. Then he became a friend of Mr. Wilberforce's, 
whose politics he admired, and had that famous correspond- 
ence with the Reverend Silas Hornblower, on the Ashantee 
Mission. He was in London, if not for the Parliament ses- 
sion, at least in May, for the religious meetings. In the coun- 
try he was a magistrate, and an active visitor and speaker 
among those destitute of religious instruction. He was said 
to be paying his addresses to Lady Jane Sheepshanks, Lord 
Southdown's third daughter, and whose sister, Lady Emily, 
wrote those sweet tracts, " The Sailor's True Binnacle," and 
" The Applewoman of Finchley Common." 

Miss Sharp's accounts of his employment at Queen's Craw- 
ley were not caricatures. He subjected the servants there to 
the devotional exercises before mentioned, in which (and so 
much the better) he brought iris father to join. He patronized 
an Independent meeting-house in Crawley parish, much to the 
indignation of his uncle the rector, -and to the consequent 
delight of Sir Pitt, who was induced to go himself once or 
twice, which occasioned some violent sermons at Crawley par- 
ish church, directed point-blank at the baronet's old Gothic 
pew there. Honest Sir Pitt, however, did not feel the force 
of these discourses, as he always took his nap during sermon- 
time. 

Mr. Crawley was very earnest, for the good of the nation 
and of the Christian world, that the old gentleman should 
yield him up his place in Parliament ; but this the elder con- 
stantly refused to do. Both were of course too prudent to 
give up the fifteen hundred a year which was brought in by 
the second seat (at this period filled by Mr. Quadroon, with 
carte-blanche on the Slave question) ; indeed the iamily 
estate was much embarrassed, and the income drawn from the 
borough was of great use to the house of Queen's Crawley. 

It had never recovered the heavy fine imposed upon Walpole 
Crawley, first baronet, for peculation in the Tape and Seal- 
ing- Wax Office. ^ Sir Walpole was a jolly fellow, eager to 
seize and to spend money (" alieni appetens, sui profusus," 




92 VANITY FAIR. 

as Mr. Crawley would remark with a sigh), and in his day- 
beloved by all the county for the constant drunkenness and 
hospitality which was maintained at Queen's Crawley The 
cellars were filled with burgundy then, the kennels with 
hounds, and the stables with gallant hunters ; now, such 
horses as Queen's Crawley possessed went to plough, or ran 
in the Trafalgar Coach ; and it was with a team ot these very 
horses, on an off-day, that Miss Sharp was brought to the 
Hall ; for boor as he was. Sir Pitt was a stickler for his dig- 
nity while at home, and seldom drove out but with four 
horses, and though he dined off boiled mutton, had always 
three footmen to serve it. 

If mere parsimony could have made a man rich, Sir Pitt 
Crawley might have become very wealthy — if he had been an 
attorney in a country town, with no capital but his brains, it 
is very possible that he would have turned them to good ac- 
count, and might have achieved for himself a very consider- 
able influence and competency. But he was unluckily endowed 
with a good name and a large though unencumbered estate, 
both of which went rather to injure than to advance him. He 
had a taste for law, which cost him many thousands yearly ; 
and being a great deal too clever to be robbed, as he said, by 
any single agent, allowed his affairs to be mismanaged by a 
dozen, whom he all equally mistrusted. He was such a sharp 
landlord that he could hardly find any but bankrupt ten- 
ants ; and such a close farmer as to grudge almost the seed 
to the ground, whereupon revengeful Nature grudged him the 
crops which she granted to more liberal husbandmen. He 
speculated in every possible way ; he worked mines ; bought 
canal shares ; horsed coaches ; took government contracts, and 
was the busiest man and magistrate of his county. As he 
would not pay honest agents at his granite quarry, he had 
the satisfaction of finding that four overseers ran away, and 
took fortunes with them to America. For want of proper 
precautions, his coal-mines filled with water : the governrhent 
flung his contract of damaged beef upon his hands ; and for 
his coach-horses, every mail proprietor in the kingdom knew 
that he lost more horses than any man in the countr)^ from 
underfeeding and buying cheap. In disposition he was so- 
ciable, and far from being proud ; nay, he rather preferred 
the society of a farmer or a horse-dealer to that of a gentle- 
man, like my lord, his son : he was fond of drink, of swear- 
ing, of joking with the farmers'- daughters : he was never 
known to give away a shilling or to do a good action, but 
was of a pleasant, sly, laughing mood, and would cut his 



FAMILY PORTRAITS, 93 

joke and drink his glass with a tenant and sell him up the 
next day ; or have his laugh with the poacher he was trans- 
porting with equal good humor. His politeness for the fair 
sex has already been hinted at by Miss Rebecca Sharp — in a 
word, the whole baronetage, peerage, commonage of England, 
did not contain a more cunning, mean, selfish, foolish, dis- 
reputable old man. That blood red hand of Sir Pitt Crawley's 
would be in anybody's pocket except his own ; and it is with 
grief and pain, that, as admirers of the British aristocracy, we 
find ourselves obliged to admit the existence, of so many ill 
qualities in a person whose name is in Debrett. 

One great cause why Mr. Crawley had such a hold over the 
affections of his father resulted from money arrangements. 
The baronet.owed his son a sum of money out of the jointure 
of his mother, which he did not find it convenient to pay ; in- 
deed he had an almost invincible repugnance to paying any- 
body, and could only be brought by force to discharge his 
debts. Miss Sharp calculated (for she became, as we shall hear 
speedily, inducted into most of the secrets of the family) that 
the mere payment of his creditors cost the honorable baronet 
several hundreds yearly ; but this was a delight he could 
not forego ; he had a savage pleasure in making the poor 
wretches wait, and in shifting from court to court and from 
term to term the period of satisfaction. What's the good of 
bein^r in Parliament, he said, if you must pay your debts ? 
Hence, indeed, his position as a senator was not a little useful 
to him. 

Vanity Fair ! Vanity Fair ! Here was a man, who could 
not spell, and did not care to read — who had the habits and 
the cunning of a boor ; whose aim in life was pettifogging ; 
who never had a taste, or emotion, or enjoyment, but what 
was sordid and foul ; and yet he had rank, and honors, and 
power, somehow ; and was a dignitary of the land, and a pil- 
lar of the state. He was high sheriff, and rode in a golden 
coach. Great ministers and statesmen courted him ; and in 
Vanity Fair he had a higher place than the most brilliant 
genius or spotless virtue. 

Sir Pitt had an unmarried half-sister who inherited her 
mother's large fortune, and though the baronet proposed to 
borrow this money of her on mortgage, Miss Crawley de- 
clined the offer, and preferred the security of the funds. She 
had signified, however, her intention of leaving her inherit- 
ance between Sir Pitt's second son and the family at the 
Rectory, and had once or twice paid the debts of Rawdon 



94 VANITY FAIR. 

Crawley in his career at college and in the army. Miss Craw- 
ley was, in consequence, an object of great respect when she 
came to Queen's Crawley, for she had a balance at her bank- 
er's which would have made her beloved anywhere. 

What a dignity it gives an old lady, that balance at the 
banker's ! How tenderly we look at her faults if she is a 
relative (and may every reader have a score of such), what 
a kind, good-natured old creature we find her ! How the ju- 
nior partner of Hobbs and Dobbs leads her smiling to the 
carriage with the lozenge upon it, and the fat, wheezy coach- 
man ! How, when she comes to pay us a visit, we generally 
find an opportunity to let our friends know her station in the 
world ! We say (and with perfect truth), I wish I had Miss 
MacWhirter's signature to a check for five thousand pounds. 
She wouldn't miss it, says your wife. She is my aunt, say 
you, in an easy, careless way, when your friend asks if Miss 
MacWhirter is any relative. Your wife is perpetually send- 
ing her little testimonies of affection, your little girls work 
endless worsted baskets, cushions, and footstools for her. 
What a good fire there is in her room when she comes to pay 
you a visit, although your wife laces her stays without one ! 
The house during her stay assumes a festive, neat, warm, jo- 
vial, snug appearance not visible at other seasons. You your- 
self, dear sir, forget to go to sleep after dinner, and find 
yourself all of a sudden (though you invariably lose) very 
fond of a rubber. What good dinners you have — game 
every day, Malmsey-Madeira, and no end of fish from Lon- 
don. Even the servants in the kitchen share in the general 
prosperity ; and somehow, during the stay of Miss Mac- 
Whirter's fat coachman, the beer is grown much stronger, 
and the consumption of tea and sugar in the nursery (where 
her maid takes her meals) is not regarded in the least. Is it 
so, or is it not so ? I appeal to the middle classes. Ah, gra- 
cious powers ! I wish you would send me an old aunt — a 
maiden aunt — an aunt with a lozenge on her carriage, and a 
front of light coffee-colored hair — how my children should 
w^ork work-bags for her, and my Julia and I would make her 
comfortable ! Sweet, sweet vision ! Foolish, foolish dream ! 



MISS SHARP BEGINS TO MAKE FRIENDS. 



95 



CHAPTER X. 



MISS SHARP BEGINS TO MAKE FRIENDS. 



ND now, being received as a member of 
the amiable family whose portraits we 
have sketched in the foregoing pages, it 
became naturally Rebecca's duty to 
make herself, as she said, agreeable to 
her benefactors, and to gain their confi- 
dence to the utmost of her power. Who 
can but admire this quality of gratitude 
in an unprotected orphan ? and, if there 
entered some degree of selfishness into 
her calculations, who can say but that 
her prudence was perfectly justifiable ? 
" I am alone in the world," said the 
friendless girl. " I have nothing to look 
for but what my own labor can bring 
me ; and while that little pink-faced chit 
Amelia, with not half my sense, has ten 
thousand pounds and an establishment 
secure, poor Rebecca (and my figure is far 
better than hers) has only herself and her 
own wits to trust to. Well, let us see if 
my wits cannot provide me with an hon- 
orable maintenance, and if some day or 
other I cannot show Miss Amelia my 
real superiority over her. Not that I dis- 
like poor Amelia : who can dislike such a harmless, good- 
natured creature ?— only it will be a fine day when I can take 
my place above her in the world, as why, indeed, should I 
not?" Thus it was that our little romantic friend formed 
visions of the future for herself — nor must we be scandal- 
ized that, in all her castles in the air, a husband was the 
principal inhabitant. Of what else have young ladies to 
think but husbands ? Of what else do their dear miammas 
think? "I must be my own mamma," said Rebecca; not 
without a tingling consciousness of defeat, as she thought 
over her little misadventure with Jos Sedley. 




go VANITY FAIR. 

So she wisely determined to render her position with the 
Queen's Crawley family comfortable and secure, and to this 
end resolved to make friends of every one around her who 
could at all interfere with her comfort. 

As my Lady Crawley was not one of these personages, and 
a woman, moreover, so indolent and void of character as not 
to be of the least consequence in her own house, Rebecca soon 
found that it was not at all necessary to cultivate her good- 
will — indeed, impossible to gain it. She used to talk to her 
pupils about their " poor mamma ;" and though she treated 
that lady with every demonstration of cool respect, it was to 
the rest of the family that she wisely directed the chief part of 
her attentions. 

With the young people, whose applause she thoroughly 
gained, her method was pretty simple. She did not pester 
their young brains with too much learning, but, on the con- 
trary, let them have their own way in regard to educating 
themselves ; for what instruction is more effectual than self- 
instruction } The eldest was rather fond of books, and as there 
was in the old library at Queen's Crawley a considerable pro- 
vision of works of light literature of the last century, both in 
the French and English languages (they had been purchased 
by the Secretary of the Tape and Sealing- Wax Office at the 
period of his disgrace), and as nobody ever troubled the book- 
shelves but herself, Rebecca was enabled agreeably, and, as 
it were, in playing, to impart a great deal of instruction to 
Miss Rose Crawley. 

She and Miss Rose thus read together many delightful 
French and English w^orks, among which may be mentioned 
ihose of the learned Dr. Smollett, of the ingenious Mr. Henry 
Fielding, of the graceful and fantastic Monsieur Crebillon the 
younger, whom our immortal poet Gray so much admired, 
and of the universal Monsieur de Voltaire. Once, when Mr. 
Crawley asked what the young people were reading, the gov- 
erness replied " Smcllett." *' Oh, Smollett," said Mr. Craw- 
ley, quite satisfied. " His history is more dull, but by no 
means so dangferous as that of Mr. Hume. It is history you 
are reading?" "Yes," said Miss Rose; without, however, 
adding that it was the history of Mr. Humphrey Clinker. On 
another occasion he was rather scandalized at finding his sis- 
ter with a book of French plays ; but as the governess re- 
marked that it was for the purpose of acquiring the French 
idiom in conversation, he was fain to be content. Mr. Craw- 
ley, as a diplomatist, was exceedingly proud of his own skill 
in speaking the French language (for he was of the world still)^ 



M/SS SHARP BEGINS TO MAKE FRIENDS. 9^ 

and not a little pleased with the compliments which the gov- 
erness continually paid him upon his proficiency. 

Miss Violet's tastes were, on the contrary, more rude and 
boisterous than those of her sister. She knew the sequestered 
spots where the hens laid their eggs. She could climb a tree 
to rob the nests of the feathered songsters of their speckled 
spoils. And her pleasure was to ride the young colts, and to 
scour the plains like Camilla. She was the favorite of her 
father and of the stable-men. She was the darling, and withal 
the terror of the cook ; for she discovered the haunts of the 
jam-pots, and would attack them when they were within her 
reach. She and her sister were engaged in constant battles. 
Any of which peccadilloes, if Miss Sharp discovered, she did 
not tell them to Lady Crawley, who would have told them to 
the father, or worse, to Mr. Crawley ; but promised not to 
tell if Miss Violet would be a good girl and love her gov- 
erness. 

With Mr. Crawley Miss Sharp was respectful and obedient. 
She used to consult him on passages of French which she 
could not understand, though her mother was a Frenchwom- 
an, and which he would construe to her satisfaction ; and, 
besides giving her his aid in profane literature, he was kind 
enough to select for her books of a more serious tendency, 
and address to her much of his conversation. She admired, 
beyond measure, his speech at the Quashimaboo-Aid Society ; 
took an interest in his pamphlet on Malt ; was often affected, 
even to tears, by his discourses of an evening, and would say, 
*' Oh, thank you, sir," with a sigh, and a look up to heaven, 
that made him occasionally condescend to shake hands with 
her. " Blood is everything, after all," would that aristo- 
cratic religionist say. " How Miss Sharp is awakened by my 
words, when not one of the people here is touched. I am too 
fine for them — too delicate. I must familiarize my style — but 
she understands it. Her mother was a Montmorency." 

Indeed it was from this famous family, as it appears, that 
Miss Sharp, by the mother's side, was descended. Of course 
she did not say that her mother had been on the stage ; it 
would have shocked Mr. Crawley's religious scruples. How 
many noble emigreeshsid this horrid revolution plunged in pov- 
erty ! She had several stories about her ancestors ere she had 
been many months in the house ; some of which Mr. Crawley 
happened to find in D'Hozier's Dictionary, which was in the 
library, and which strengthened his belief in their truth, and 
in the high-breeding of Rebecca. Are we to suppose from 
this curiosity and prying into dictionaries, could our heroine 



0^> VANITY FAIR. 

suppose, that Mr. Crawley was interested in her ? No, only 
in a friendly way. Have We not stated that he was attached 
to Lady Jane Sheepshanks ? 

He took Rebecca to task once or twice about the propri- 
ety of playing at backgammon with Sir Pitt, saying that it 
was a godless amusement, and that she would be much better 
engaged in reading "Thrump's Legacy," or "The Blind 
Washerwoman of Moorfields," or any work of a more serious 
nature ; but Miss Sharp said her dear mother used often to 
play the same game with the old Count de Trictrac and the 
venerable Abbe de Cornet, and so found an excuse for this and 
other worldly amusements. 

But it was not only by playing at backgammon with the 
baronet that the little governess rendered herself agreeable 
to her employer. She found many different ways of being 
useful to him. She read over, with indefatigable patience, 
all those law papers, v;ith which, before she came to Queen's 
Crawley, he had promised to entertain her. She volunteered 
to copy many of his letters, and adroitly altered the spelling 
of them so as to suit the usages of the present day. She be- 
came interested in everything appertaining to the estate, to 
the farm, the park, the garden, and the stables ; and so de- 
lightful a companion was she that the baronet would seldom 
take his after-breakfast walk without her (and the children of 
course), when she would give her advice as to the trees which 
were to be lopped in the shrubberies, the garden-beds to be 
dug, the crops which were to be cut, the horses which were to 
go to cart or plough. Before she had been a year at Queen's 
Crawley she had quite won the baronet's confidence ; and the 
conversation at the dinner-table, which before used to be 
held between him and Mr. Horrocks the butler, was now al- 
most exclusively between Sir Pitt and Miss Sharp. She was 
almost mistress of the house when Mrs. Crawley was absent, 
but conducted herself in her new and exalted situation with 
such circumspection and modesty as not to offend the author- 
ities of the kitchen and stable, among whom her behavior was 
always exceedingly modest and affable. She was quite a dif- 
ferent person from the haughty, shy, dissatisfied little girl 
whom we have known previously, and this change of temper 
proved great prudence, a sincere desire of amendment, or at 
any rate great moral courage on her part. Whether it was 
the heart which dictated this new system of complaisance and 
humility adopted by our Rebecca, is to be proved by her after- 
history. A system of hypocrisy, which lasts through whole 
years, is one seldom satisfactorily practised by a person of 



MISS SHARP BEGINS TO MAKE FRIENDS. 99 

one-and-twenty ; however, our readers will recollect that, 
though young in years, our heroine was old in life and expe- 
rience, and we have written to no purpose if they had not 
discovered that she was a very clever woman. 

The elder and younger son of the house of Crawley were, 
like the gentleman and lady in the weather-box, never at home 
together — they hated each other cordially ; indeed, Rawdon 
Crawley, the dragoon, had a great contempt for the estab- 
lishment altogether, and seldom came thither except when his 
aunt paid her annual visit. 

The great good quality of this old lady has been mentioned. 
She possessed seventy thousand pounds, and had almost 
adopted Rawdon. She disliked her elder nephew exceedingly, 
and despised him as a milksop. In return he did not hesitate 
to state that her soul was irretrievably lost, and was of opin- 
ion that his brother's chance in the next world was not a whit 
better, " She is a godless woman of the world," would 
Mr. Crawley say ; " she lives with atheists and Frenchmen. 
My mind shudders when I think of her awful, awful situation, 
and that, near as she is to the grave, she should be so given 
up to vanity, licentiousness, profaneness, and folly." In fact, 
the old lady declined altogether to hear his hour's lecture of 
an evening ; and when she came to Queen's Crawley alone, 
he was obliged to pretermit his usual devotional exercises. 

" Shut up your sarmons, Pitt, when Miss Crawley comes 
down," said his father ; " she has written to say that she won't 
stand the preachifying." 

" Oh, sir ! consider the servants." 

" The servants be hanged," said Sir Pitt ; and his son 
thought even worse would happen were they deprived of the 
benefit of his instruction. 

" Why, hang it, Pitt !" said the father to his remonstrance. 
" You wouldn't be such a flat as to let three thousand a year 
go out of the family ?" 

" What is money compared to our souls, sir ?" continued Mr. 
Crawley. 

' ' You mean that the old lady won't leave the money to you ?' ' 
— and who knows but it mas Mr. Crawley's meaning ? 

Old Miss Crawley was certainly one of the reprobate. She 
had a snug little house in Park Lane, and, as she ate and 
drank a great deal too much during the season in London, 
she went to Harrowgate or Cheltenham for the summer. She 
was the most hospitable and jovial of old vestals, and had been 
a beauty in her day, she said. (All old women were beauties 
once, we very well know.) She was a bel esprit, and a dreadful 



100 VANITY FAIR. 

Radical for those days. She had been in France (where St. 
Just, they say, inspired her with an unfortunate passion), and 
loved, ever after, French novels, French cookery, and French 
wines. She read Voltaire, and had Rousseau by heart ; talked 
very lightly about divorce, and most energetically of the rights 
of women. She had pictures of Mr. Fox in every room in the 
house : when that statesman was in opposition, I am not sure 
that she had not flung a main with him ; and when he came 
into office, she took great credit for bringing over to him Sir 
Pitt and his colleague for Queen's Crawley, although Sir Pitt 
would have come over himself, without any trouble on the 
honest lady's part. It is needless to say that Sir Pitt was 
brought to change his views after the death of the great Whig 
statesman. 

This worthy old lady took a fancy to Rawdon Crawley when 
a boy, sent him to Cambridge (in opposition to his brother 
at Oxford), and, when the young man was requested by the 
authorities of the first-named university to quit after a resi- 
dence of two years, she bought him his commission in the Life 
Guards Green. 

A perfect and celebrated " blood," or dandy about town, 
was this young officer. Boxing, rat-hunting, the fives' court 
and four-in-hand driving were then the fashion of our British 
aristocracy ; and he was an adept in all these noble sciences. 
And though he belonged to the household troops, who, as it 
was their duty to rally round the Prince Regent, had not 
shown their valor in foreign service yet, Rawdon Crawley had 
already (apropos of play, of which he was immoderately fond) 
fought three bloody duels, in which he gave ample proofs of 
his contempt for death. 

" And for what follows after death," w^ould Mr. Crawley 
observe, throwing his gooseberry-colored eyes up to the ceil- 
ing. He was always thinking of his brother's soul, or of 
the souls of those who differed with him in opinion : it is a 
sort of comfort which many of the serious give themselves. 

Silly, romantic Miss Crawley, far from being horrified at 
the courage of her favorite, always used to pay his debts after 
his duels ; and would not listen to a word that was whis- 
pered against his morality. " He will sow his wild-oats," 
she would say, " and is worth far more than that puling hypo- 
crite of a brother of his." 



ARCADIAN SIMPLICITY, 



lOI 



CHAPTER XL 




ARCADIAN SIMPLICITY. 

ESIDES these honest 
folks at the Hall 
(whose simplicity and 
sweet rural purity 
surely show the ad- 
vantage of a country 
life over a town one), 
we must introduce 
the reader to their rel- 
atives and neighbors 
at the Rectory, Bute 
Crawley and his wife. 
The Reverend Bute 
Crawley was a tall, 
stately, jolly, shovel-hatted man, far more popular in his 
county than the baronet his brother. At college he pulled 
stroke-oar in the Christchurch boat, and had thrashed all 
the best bruisers of the "town." He carried his taste for 
boxing and athletic exercises into private life ; there was not 
a fight within twenty miles at which he was not present, nor 
a race, nor a coursing match, nor a regatta, nor a ball, nor an 
election, nor a visitation dinner, nor indeed a good dinner in 
the whole county, but he found means to attend it. You might 
see his bay-mare and gig-lamps a score of miles away from his 
Rectory House, whenever there was any dinner-party at Fud- 
dleston, or at Roxby, or at Wapshot Hall, or at the great 
lords of the county, with all of whom he was intimate. He 
had a fine voice ; sang "A southerly wind and a cloudy sky ;" 
and gave the " whoop" in chorus with general applause. 
He rode to hounds in a pepper-and-salt frock, and was one 
of the best fishermen in the county. 

Mrs. Crawley, the rector's wife, was a smart little body, 
who wrote this worthy divine's sermons. Being of a domestic 
turn, and keeping the house a great deal with her daughters, 
she ruled absolutely within the Rectory, wisely giving her 



102 VANITY FAIR. 

husband full liberty without. He was welcome to come and 
go, and dine abroad as many days as his fancy dictated, for 
Mrs. Crawley was a saving woman, and knew the price of 
port wine. Ever since Mrs. Bute carried off the young rec- 
tor of Queen's Crawley (she was of a good family, daughter of 
the late Lieutenant-Colonel Hector MacTavish, and she and 
her brother played for Bute and won him at Harrowgate), she 
had been a prudent and thrifty wife to him. In spite of her 
care, however, he was always in debt. It took him at least 
ten years to pay off his college bills contracted during his 
father's lifetime. In the year 179 — , when he was just clear of 
these incumbrances, he gave the odds of 100 to i (in twen- 
ties) against Kangaroo, who won the Derby. The rector was 
obliged to take up the money at a ruinous interest, and had 
been struggling ever since. His sister helped him with a hun- 
dred now and then, but of course his great hope was in her 
death — when, " hang it " (as he would say), " Matilda must 
leave me half her money." 

So that the baronet and his brother had every reason which 
two brothers possibly can have for being by the ears. Sir 
Pitt had had the better of Bute in innumerable family trans- 
actions. Young Pitt not only did not hunt, but set up a 
meeting-house under his uncle's very nose. Rawdon, it was 
known, was to come in for the bulk of Miss Crawley's prop- 
erty. These money transactions — these speculations in life 
and death — these silent battles for reversionary spoil — make 
brothers very loving toward each other in Vanity Fair. I, 
for my part, have known a five-pound note to interpose and 
knock up a half-century's attachment between two brethren ; 
and can't but admire, as I think, what a fine and durable thing 
Love is among worldly people. 

It cannot be supposed that the arrival of such a personage 
as Rebecca at Queen's Crawley, and her gradual establish- 
ment in the good graces of all people there, could be unre- 
marked by Mrs. Bute Crawley. Mrs. Bute, who knew how 
many days the sirloin of beef lasted at the Hall ; how much 
linen was got ready at the great wash ; how many peaches 
were on the south wall ; how many doses her ladyship took 
when she was ill — for such points are matters of intense in- 
terest to certain persons in the country — Mrs. Bute, I say, 
could not pass over the Hall governess without making every 
inquiry respecting her history and character. There was al- 
ways the best understanding between the servants at the Rec- 
tory and the Hall. There was always a good glass of ale in 
the kitchen of the former place for the Hall people, whose 



ARCADIAN SIMPLICITY. 105 

ordinary drink was very small — and, indeed, the rector's lady 
knew exactly how much malt went to every barrel of Hall 
beer — ties of relationship existed between the Hall and Rec- 
tory domestics, as between their masters ; and through these 
channels each family was perfectly well acquainted with the 
doings of the other. That, by the way, may be set down as a 
general remark. When you and your brother are friends, his 
doings are indifferent to you. When you have quarrelled, 
all his outgoings and incomings you know, as if you were 
his spy. 

Very soon then after her arrival, Rebecca began to take a 
regular place in Mrs. Crawley's bulletin from the Hall. It 
was to this effect : " The black porker's killed — weighed x 
stone — salted the sides — pig's pudding and leg of pork for 
dinner. Mr. Cramp, from Mudbury, over with Sir Pitt about 
putting John Blackmore in jail — Mr. Pitt at meeting (with all 
the names of the people who attended) — my lady as usual 
— the young ladies with the governess." 

Then the report would come — the new governess be a rare 
manager — Sir Pitt be very sweet on her — Mr. Crawley too — 
he be reading tracts to her — " What an abandoned wretch !" 
said little, eager, active, black-faced Mrs. Bute Crawley. 

Finally, the reports were that the governess had " come 
round " everybody, wrote Sir Pitt's letters, did his business, 
managed his accounts — had the upper hand of the whole 
house, my lady, Mr. Crawley, the girls and all — at which 
Mrs. Crawley declared she was an artful hussy, and had some 
dreadful designs in view. Thus the doings at the Hall were 
the great food for conversation at the Rectory, and Mrs. 
Bute s bright eyes spied out everything that took place in the 
enemy's camp — everything and a great deal besides. . 

Mrs. Bute Crawley to Miss Pinkerton^ The Mall^ Chiswick. 

"Rectory, Queen's Crawley, December — . 

" My Dear Madam : Although it is so many years since I profited by your 
delightful Sind invaluable msXx\xci\on?<, yet I have ^z/^r retained the /cw^^j-/ and 
i?iost reverential regard for Miss Pinkerton and dear Chiswick. I hope your 
health is good. The world and the cause of education cannot afford to lose 
Miss Pinkerton for many^ many years. When my friend. Lady Fuddleston, 
mentioned that her dear girls required an instructress (I am too poor to en- 
gage a governess for mine, but was I not educated at Chiswick ?)— ' Who,' I 
exclaimed, ' can we consult but the excellent, the incomparable Miss Pinker- 
ton ? ' In a word, have you, dear madam, any ladies on your list, whose 
services might be made available to my kind friend and neighbor ? I assure 
you she will take no governess but of your choosing. 



104 VANITY FAIR. 

" My dear husband is pleased to say that he likes everything which comes 
from Miss Pinkertori s school. How I wish I could present him and my be- 
loved girls to the friend of my youth, and the admired of the great lexicogra- 
pher of our country ! If you ever travel into Hampshire, Mr. Crawley begs 
me to say, he hopes you will adorn our rural rectory with your presence. 
'Tis the humble but happy home of 

" Your affectionate Martha Crawley. 



" P,S. — Mr. Crawley's brother, the baronet, with whom we are not, alas ! 
upon those terms of uyiity in which it becomes brethren to dwell, has a govern- 
ess for his little girls, who, I am told, had the good fortune to be educated 
at Chiswick. I hear various reports of her ; and as I have the tenderest in- 
terest in my dearest little nieces, whom I wish, in spite of family differences, 
to see among my own children — and as I long to be attentive to any pupil of 
yours — do, my dear Miss Pinkerton, tell me the history of this young lady, 
whom, iox your sake, 1 am most anxious to befriend. — M. C." 



Miss Pinker to fi to Mrs. Bute Crawley. 

"Johnson House, Chiswick, December, i8 — . 

" Dear Madam : I have the honor to acknowledge your polite com- 
munication, to which I promptly reply. 'Tis most gratifying to one in my 
most arduous position to find that my maternal cares have elicited a respon- 
sive affection ; and to recognize in the amiable Mrs. Bute Crawley my ex- 
cellent pupil of former years, the sprightly and accomplished Miss Martha 
MacTavish. I am happy to have under my charge now the daughters of 
many of those who were your contemporaries at my establishment — what 
pleasure it would give me if your own beloved young ladies had need of my 
instructive superintendence ! 

" Presenting my respectful compliments to Lady Fuddleston, I have the 
honor (epistolarily) to introduce to her ladyship my two friends, Miss TufBn 
and Miss Hawky. 

" Either of these young ladies is perfectly qualified to instruct in Greek, 
Latin, and the rudiments of Hebrew ; in mathematics and history ; in Span- 
ish, French, Italian, and geography ; in music, vocal and instrumental ; 
in dancing, without the aid of a master ; and in the elements of natural 
sciences. In the use of the globes both are proficients. In addition to these. 
Miss Tuffin, who is daughter of the late Reverend Thomas Tufhn (Fellow 
of Corpus College, Cambridge), can instruct in the Syriac language, and the 
elements of constitutional law. But as she is only eighteen years of age, and 
of exceedingly pleasing personal appearance, perhaps this young lady may be 
objectionable in Sir Huddleston Fuddleston's family. 

" Miss Letitia Hawky, on the other hand, is not personally well-favored. 
She is twenty-nine ; her face is much pitted with the small-pox. She has 
a halt in her gait, red hair, and a trifling obliquity of vision. Both ladies 
are endowed with every moral and religious virtue. Their terms, of course, 
are such as ^heir accomplishments merit, With my most grateful respects 
to the Reverend Bute Crawley, I have the honor to be, 
" Dear Madam, 

" Your most faithful and obedient servant, 

" Barbara Pinkerton. 




Miss Crawley's Affectionate Relatives. 



ARCADIAN SIMPLICITY. 105 

" P.S. — The Miss Sharp, whom you mention as governess to Sir Pitt Craw- 
ley, Bart., M.P., was a pupil of mine, and I have nothing to say in her dis- 
favor. Though her appearance is disagreeable, we cannot control the 
operations of nature ; and though her parents were disreputable (her father 
being a painter, several times bankrupt, and her mother, as I have since 
learned, with horror, a dancer at the Opera), yet her talents are considerable, 
and I cannot regret that I received her out oj charity. My dread is, lest the 
principles of the mother — who was represented to me as a French countess, 
forced to emigrate in the late revolutionary horrors, but who, as I have 
since found, was a person of the very lotuest order and morals — should at any 
time prove to be kei'edita?y in the unhappy young woman whom I took as 
an outcast. But her principles have hitherto been correct (I believe), and I 
am sure nothing will occur to injure them in the elegant and refined circle 
of the eminent Sir Pitt Crawley." 

Miss Rebecca Sharp to Miss Amelia Sedlev. 

" I have not written to my beloved Amelia for these many weeks past, for 
what news was there to tell of the sayings and doings at Humdrum Hall, 
as I have christened it ; and what do you care whether the turnip crop is 
good or bad ; whether the fat pig weighed thirteen stone or fourteen ; and 
whether the beasts thrive well upon mangel-wurzel ? Every day since I last 
wrote has been like its neighbor. Before breakfast, a walk with Sir Pitt and 
his spud ; after breakfast, studies (such as they are) in the school-room ; after 
school-room, reading and writing about lawyers, leases, coal-mines, canals, 
with Sir Pitt (whose secretary I am become) ; after dinner, Mr. Crawley's 
discourses or the baronet's backgammon ; during both of which amusements 
my lady looks on with equal placidity. She has become rather more interest- 
ing by being ailing of late, which has brought a new visitor to the Hall, in 
the person of a young doctor. Well, my dear, young women need never 
despair. The young doctor gave a certain friend of yours to understand 
that, if she chose to be Mrs. Glauber, she was welcome to ornament the sur- 
gery ! I told his impudence that the gilt pestle and mortar was quite orna- 
ment enough ; as if I was born, indeed, to be a country surgeon's wife ! Mr. 
Glauber went home seriously indisposed at his rebuff, took a cooling draught, 
and is now quite cured. Sir Pitt applauded my resolution highly ; he would 
be sorry to lose his little secretary, I think ; and I believe the old wretch 
likes me as much as it is in his nature to like any one. Marry, indeed ! 
and with a country apothecary, after — No, no, one cannot so soon forget 
old associations, about which I will talk no more. Let us return to Hum- 
drum Hall, 

" For some time past it is Humdrum Hall no longer. My dear. Miss 
Crawley has arrived with her fat horses, fat servants, fat spaniel — the great 
rich Miss Crawley, with seventy thousand pounds in the five per cents, whom, 
or I had better say which, her two brothers adore. She looks very apoplec- 
tic, the dear soul ; no wonder her brothers are anxious about her. You 
should see them struggling to settle her cushions, or to hand her coffee ! 
' When I come into the country,' she says (for she has a great deal of humor), 
' I leave my toady. Miss Briggs, at home. My brothers are my toadies here, 
my dear, and a pretty pair they are !' 

" When she comes into the country our Hall is thrown open, and for a 
month, at least, you would fancy old Sir Walpole was come to life again. 
We have dinner-parties, and drive out in the coach-and-four — the footmen 
put on their newest canary-colored liveries ; we drink claret and champagne 



lo6 VANITY FAIR, 

as if we were accustomed to it every day. We have wax candles in the school- 
room, and fires to warm ourselves with. Lady Crawley is made to put on 
the brightest pea-green in her wardrobe, and my pupils leave off their thick 
shoes and tight old tartan pelisses, and wear silk stockings and muslin 
frocks, as fashionable baronets' daughters should. Rose came in yesterday 
in a sad plight — the Wiltshire sow (an enormous pet of hers) ran her down, 
and destroyed a most lovely flowered lilac silk dress by dancing over it. Had 
this happened a week ago, Sir Pilt would have sworn frightfullv, have boxed 
the poor wretch's ears, and put her upon bread and water for a month. All 
he said was, ' I'll serve you out, Miss, when your aunt's gone,' and laughed 
off the accident as quite trivial. Let us hope his wrath will have passed away 
before Miss Cravi^ley's departure. I hope so, for Miss Rose's sake, I am 
sure. What a charming reconciler and peace-maker money is ! 

" Another admirable effect of Miss Crawley and her seventy thousand 
pounds is to be seen in the conduct of the two brothers Crawley. I mean the 
baronet and the rector, not otir brothers — but the former, who hate each 
other all the year round, become quite loving at Christmas. I wrote to 
you last year how the abominable horse-racing rector was in the habit of 
preaching clumsy sermons at us at church, and how Sir Pitt snored in an- 
swer. When Miss Crawley arrives there is no such thing as quarrelling 
heard of — the Hall visits the Rectory, and vice versa — the parson and the 
baronet talk about the pigs and the poachers, and the county business, in 
the most affable manner, and without quarrelling in their cups, I believe — in- 
deed. Miss Crawley won't hear of their quarrelling, and vows that she will 
leave her money to the Shropshire Crawleys if they offend her. If they were 
•clever people, those Shropshire Crawleys, they might have it all, I think ; 
but the Shropshire Crawley is a clergyman like his Hampshire cousin, and 
mortally offended Miss Crawley (who had fled thither in a fit of rage 
against her impracticable brethren) by some strait-laced notions of moral 
ity. He would have prayers in the house, I believe. 

" Our sermon-books are shut up when Miss Crawley arrives, and Mr. Pitt, 
whom she abominates, finds it convenient to go to town. On the other hand, 
the young dandy — ' blood,' I believe, is the term — Captain Crawley makes 
his appearance, and I suppose you will like to know what sort of a person 
he is. 

" Well, he is a very large young dandy. He is six feet high, and speaks 
with a great voice ; and swears a great deal ; and orders about the servants, 
who all adore him nevertheless ; for he is very generous of his mone}'. and 
the domestics will do anything for him. Last week the keepers almost 
killed a bailiff and his man who came down from London to arrest the cap- 
tain, and who were found lurking about the Park wall — they beat them, ducked 
them, and were going to shout them for poachers, but the baronet inter- 
fered. 

" The captain has a hearty contempt for his father, I can see, and calls 
him an old put, an old snob, an old chawbacoji, and numberless other pretty 
names. He has Sidrendft^l reputation among the ladies. He brings his hunt- 
ers home with him, lives with the squires of the county, asks whom he 
pleases to dinner, and Sir Pitt dares not say no, for fear of offending Miss 
Crawley, and missing his legacy when she dies of her apoplexy. Shall I tell 
you a compliment the captain paid me ? I must, it is so pretty. One 
eVening we actually had a dance ; there was Sir Huddleston Fuddleston 
and his family. Sir Giles Wapshot and his young ladies, and I don't know 
how many more. Well, I heard him say, ' By Jove, she's a neat little 
filly ! ' meaning your humble servant ; and he did me the honor to dance 
two country-dances with me. He gets on pretty gayly with the young 



ARCADIAN SIMPLICITY. 



107 



squires, with whom he drinks, bets, rides, and talks about hunting and shoot- 
ing ; but he says the country girls are bores ; indeed, I don't think he is far 
wrong. You should see the contempt with which they look down on poor 
me ! When they dance I sit and play the piano very demurely ; but the other 
tiight, coming in rather flushed from the dining-room, and seeing me em- 
ployed in this way, he swore out loud that I was the best dancer in the 
room, and took a great oath that he would have the fiddlers from Mudbury. 




" * I'll go and play a country-dance,' said Mrs. Bute Crawley, very readily 
(she is a little, black-faced old woman in a turban, rather crooked, and with 
very twinkling eyes) ; and after the captain and your poor little Rebecca had 
performed a dance together, do you know she actually did me the honor to 
compliment me upon my steps ! Such a thing was never heard of before — 
the proud Mrs. Bute Crawley, first cousin to the Earl of Tiptoff, who won't 
condescend to visit Lady Crawley, except when her sister is in the coun- 
try. Poor Lady Crawley ! during most part of these gayeties, she is up-stairs 
taking pills. 

Mrs. Bute has all of a sudden taken a great fancy to me. * My dear 
Miss Sharp,' she says, ' why not bring over your girls to the Rectory ? their 
cousins will be so happy to see them.' I know what she means. Signer 
dementi did not teach us the piano for nothing ; at which price Mrs. Bute 
hopes to get a professor for her children. I can see through her schemes, 
as though she told them to me ; but I shall go, as I am determined to make 



io8 



VANITY FAIR. 



myself agreeable — is it not a poor governess's duty, who has not a friend or 
protector in the world ? The rector's wife paid me a score of compli- 
ments about the progress my pupils made, and, thought, no doubt, to touch 
my heart — poor, simple, country soul I — as if I cared a fig about my pupils .' 
" Your India muslin and your pink silk, dearest Amelia, are said to be- 
come me very well. They are a good deal worn now ; but, you know, 
we poor girls can't afford des fraiches toilettes. Happy, happy you ! who 
have but to drive to St. James's Street, and a dear mother who will give 
you anything you ask. Farewell, dearest girl. 

" Your affectionate Rebecca. 

" P.S. — I wish you could have seen the faces of the Miss Blackbrook 
(Admiral Blackbrook's daughters, my dear), fine young ladies, with dresses 
from London, when Captain Rawdon selected poor me for a partner !" 




When Mrs. Bute Crawley (whose artifices our ingenious 
Rebecca had so soon discovered) had procured from Miss 
Sharp the promise of a visit, she induced the all-powerful 
Miss Crawley to make the necessary application to Sir Pitt, 
and the good-natured old lady, who loved to be gay herself, 



ARCADIAN SIMPLICITY. 109 

and to see every one gay and happy round about her, was 
quite charmed, and ready to establish a reconciliation and 
intimacy between her two brothers. It was therefore agreed 
that the young people of both families should visit each other 
frequently for the future, and the friendship of course lasted 
as long as the jovial old mediatrix was there to keep the 
peace. 

" Why did you ask that scoundrel, Rawdon Crawley, to 
dine ?" said the rector to his lady, as they were walking home 
through the park. '* /don't want the fellow. He looks down 
upon us country people as so many blackamoors. He's 
never content unless he gets my yellow-sealed wine, which 
costs me ten shillings a bottle, hang him ! Besides, he's 
such an infernal character — he's a gambler — he's a drunkard 
— he's a profligate in everyway. He shot a man in a duel 
— he's over head and ears in debt, and he's robbed me and 
mine of the best part of Miss Crawley's fortune. Waxy says 
she has him" — here the rector shook his fist at the moon, 
with something very like an oath, and added, in a melan- 

cholious tone, " , down in her will for fifty thousand ; 

and there won't be above thirty to divide." 

" I think she's going," said the rector's wife. " She was 
very red in the face when we left dinner. I was obliged to 
unlace her." 

" She drank seven glasses of champagne," said the rev- 
erend gentleman, in a low voice ; " and filthy champagne it 
is, too, that my brother poisons us with — but you women 
never know what's what." 

" We know nothing," said Mrs. Bute Crawley. 

" She drank cherry-brandy after dinner," continued his 
reverence, " and took curagoa with her coffee. / wouldn't 
take a glass for a five-pound note : it kills me with heart-burn. 
She can't stand it, Mrs. Crawley — she must go — flesh and 
blood won't bear it ! and I lay five to two, Matilda drops in a 
year. ' ' 

Indulging in these solemn speculations, and thinking about 
his debts, and his son Jim at college, and Frank at Woolwich, 
and the four girls, who were no beauties, poor things, and 
would not have a penny but what they got from the aunt's 
expected legacy, the rector and his lady walked on for a 
while. 

" Pitt can't be such an infernal villain as to sell the rever- 
sion of the living. And that Methodist milksop of an eldest 
sun looks to Parliament," continued Mr. Crawley, after a 
pause. 



no VANITY FAIR. 

" Sir Pitt Crawley will do anything," said the rector's wife. 
" We must get Miss Crawley to make him promise it to 
James." 

" Pitt will promise anything," replied the brother. " He 
promised he'd pay my college bills, when my father died ; he 
promised he'd build the new wing to the Rectory ; he 
promised he'd let me have Jibb's Field and the Six-acre 
Meadow — and much he executed his promises ! And it's to 
this man's son — this scoundrel, gambler, swindler, murderer 
of a Rawdon Crawley, that Matilda leaves the bulk of her 
money. I say it's unchristian. By Jove, it is ! The infamous 
dog has got every vice except hypocrisy, and that belongs to 
his brother." 

" Hush ! my dearest love ! we're in Sir Pitt's grounds," in- 
terposed his wife. 

'' I say he has got every vice, Mrs. Crawley. Don't, ma'am, 
bully me. Didn't he shoot Captain Marker? Didn't he rob 
young Lord Dovedale at the Cocoa-Tree ? Didn't he cross the 
fight between Bill Soames and the Cheshire Trump, by which 
I lost forty pound ? You know he did ; and as for the women, 
why, you heard that before me, in my own magistrate's 
room — " 

" For Heaven's sake, Mr. Crawley," said the lady, " spare 
me the details." 

" And you ask this villain into your house!" continued 
the exasperated rector. " You, the mother of a young family 
— the wife of a clergyman of the Church of England. By 
Jove !" 

" Bute Crawley, you are a fool," said the rector's wife 
scornfully. 

" Well, ma'am, fool or not — and I don't say, Martha, I'm 
so clever 2Ji> you are, I never did. But I won't meet Rawdon 
Crawley, that's flat. I'll go over to Huddleston, that I will, 
and see his black greyhound, Mrs. Crawley ; and I'll run 
Lancelot against him for fifty. By Jove, I will ; or against 
any dog in England. But I won't meet that beast Rawdon 
Crawley." 

"Mr. Crawley, you are intoxicated, as usual," replied his 
wife. And the next morning, when the rector woke, and 
called for small beer, she put him in mind of his promise to 
visit Sir Huddleston Fuddleston on Saturday, and as he knew 
he should have a wet nighty it was agreed that he might gallop 
back again in time for church on Sunday morning. Thus it 
will be seen that the parishioners of Crawley were equally 
happy in their squire and in their rector. 



ARCADIAN SIMPLICITY. m 

Miss Crawley had not long been established at the Hall 
before Rebecca's fascinations had won the heart of that good- 
natured London rake, as they had of the country innocents 
whom we have been describing. Taking her accustomed 
drive, one day, she thought fit to order that " that little gov- 
erness" should accompany her to Mudbury. Before they 
had returned Rebecca had made a conquest of her ; having 
made her laugh four times, and amused her during the whole 
of the little journey. 

" Not let Miss Sharp dine at table !" said she to Sir Pitt, 
who had arranged a dinner of ceremony, and asked all the 
neighboring baronets. " My dear creature, do you suppose 
I can talk about the nursery with Lady Fuddleston, or discuss 
justices' business with that goose, old Sir Giles Wapshot ? I 
insist upon Miss Sharp appearing. Let Lady Crawley remain 
up-stairs, if there is no room. But little Miss Sharp ! Why, 
she's the only person fit to talk to in the county !" 

Of course, after such a peremptory order as this, Miss 
Sharp, the governess, received commands to dine with the 
illustrious company below stairs. And when Sir Huddle 
ston had, with great pomp and ceremony, handed Miss Craw- 
ley into dinner, and was preparing to take his place by her 
side, the old lady cried out, in a shrill voice, " Becky Sharp ! 
Miss Sharp ! Come you and sit by me and amuse me ; ar.d 
let Sir Huddleston sit by Lady Wapshot." 

When the parties were over, and the carriages had rolled 
away, the insatiable Miss Crawley would say, " Come to my 
dressing-room, Becky, and let us abuse the company" — 
which, between them, this pair of friends did perfectly. Old 
Sir Huddleston wheezed a great deal at dinner ; Sir Giles 
Wapshot had a particularly noisy manner of imbibing his 
soup, and her ladyship a wink of the left eye ; all of which 
Becky caricatured to admiration ; as well as the particulars of 
the night's conversation ; the politics ; the war ; the quarter- 
sessions ; the famous run with the H. H., and those heavy 
and dreary themes about which country gentlemen converse. 
As for the Misses Wapshots' toilettes and Lady Fuddleston's 
famous yellow hat. Miss Sharp tore them to tatters, to the 
infinite amusement of her audience. 

" My dear, you are a perfect trouvaille^'" Miss Crawley 
would say. " I wish you could come to me in London, but 
I couldn't make a butt of you as I do of poor Briggs — no, 
no, you little sly creature ; you are too clever — isn't she. Fir- 
kin ?" 

Mrs. Firkin (who was dressing the very small remnant of 



112 VANITY FAIR, 

hair which remained on Miss Crawley's pate) flung up her 
head and said, "I think Miss is very clever," with the most 
killing, sarcastic air. In fact, Mrs. Firkin had that natural 
jealousy which is one of the main principles of every honest 
woman. 

After rebuffing Sir Huddleston Fuddleston, Miss Crawley 
ordered that Rawdon Crawley should lead her into dinner 
every day, and that Becky should follow with her cushion — 
or else she would have Becky's arm and Rawdon with the 
pillow. " We must sit together," she said. " We're the only 
three Christians in the county, my love" — in which case it 
must be confessed that religion was at a very low ebb in the 
county of Hants. 

Besides being such a fine religionist, Miss Crawley was, as 
we have said, an ultraliberal in opinions, and always took 
occasion to express these in the most candid manner. 

"What is birth, my dear?" she would say to Rebecca. 
" Look at my brother Pitt; look at the Huddlestons, who 
have been here since Henry II. ; look at poor Bute at .the par- 
sonage ; is any one of them equal to you in intelligence or 
breeding ? Equal to you — they are not even equal to poor 
dear Briggs, my companion, or Bowls, my butler. You, my 
love, are a little paragon — positively a little jewel. You have 
more brains than half the shire ; if merit had its reward you 
ought to be a duchess — no, there ought to be no duchesses at 
all ; but you ought to have no superior, and I consider you, 
my love, as my equal in every respect ; and — will you put 
some coals on the fire, my dear ; and will you pick this dress 
of mine, and alter it, you wha can do it so well ?" So this 
old philanthropist used to make her equal run of her errands, 
execute her millinery, and read her to sleep with French 
novels, every night. 

At this time, as some old readers may recollect, the genteel 
world had been thrown into a considerable state of excitement, 
by two events, which, as the papers say, might give employ- 
ment to the gentlemen of the long robe. Ensign Shafton had 
run away with Lady Barbara Fitzurse, the Earl of Bruin's 
daughter and heiress ; and poor Vere Vane, a gentleman who, 
up to forty, had maintained a most respectable character and 
reared a numerous family, suddenly and outrageously left 
his home, for the sake of Mrs. Rougemont, the actress, who 
was sixty-five years of age. 

" That was the most beautiful part of dear Lord Nelson's 
character," Miss Crawley said. " He went to the deuce for a 
woman. There must be good in a man who will do that. I 



ARCADIAN SIMPLICITY. I13 

adore all imprudent matches. What I like best, is for a 
nobleman to marry a miller's daughter, as Lord Flowerdale 
did — it makes all the women so angry. I wish some great 
man would run away with you^ my dear ; I'm sure you're 
pretty enough." 

" Two post-boys ! Oh, it would be delightful !" Rebecca 
owned. 

" And what I like next best is for a poor fellow to run 
away with a rich girl. I have set my heart on Rawdon run- 
ning away with some one." 

" A rich some one, or a poor some one ?" 

" Why, you goose ! Rawdon has not a shilling but what I 
give him. He is crible de dettes — he must repair his fortunes, 
and succeed in the world." 

*' Is he very clever?" Rebecca asked. 

" Clever, my love ? — not an idea in the world beyond his 
horses, and his regiment, and his hunting, and his play ; but 
he must succeed — he's so delightfully wicked. Don't you know 
he has hit a man, and shot an injured father through the 
hat only ? He's adored in his regiment ; and all the young 
men at Wattier's and the Cocoa Tree swear by him." 

When Miss Rebecca Sharp wrote to her beloved friend the 
account of the little ball at Queen's Crawley, and the man- 
ner in which, for the first time, Captain Crawley had distin- 
guished her, she did not, strange to relate, give an altogether 
accurate account of the transaction. The captain had distin- 
guished her a great number of times before. The captain 
had met her in a half-score of walks. The captain had lighted 
upon her in a half-hundred of corridors and passages. The 
captain had hung over her piano twenty times of an even- 
ing (my lady was now up-stairs, being ill, and nobody heeded 
her) as Miss Sharp sang. The captain had written her notes 
(the best that the great, blundering dragoon could devise 
and spell ; but dulness gets on as well as any other quality 
with women). But when he put the first of the notes into the 
leaves of the song she was singing, the little governess, rising 
and looking him steadily in the face, took up the triangular 
missive daintily, and waved it about as if it were a cocked hat, 
and she, advancing to the enemy, popped the note into the 
fire, and made him a very low courtesy, and went back to her 
place, and began to sing away again more merrily than ever. 

"What's that?" said Miss Crawley, interrupted in her 
after dinner doze by the stoppage of the music. 

** It's a false note," Miss Sharp said, with a laugh ; an J 
Rawdon Crawley fumed with rage and mortification. 



114 VANITY FAIR, 

Seeing the evident partiality of Miss Crawley for the new 
governess, how good it was of Mrs. Bute Crawley not to be 
jealous, and to welcome the young lady to the Rectory, and 
not only her, but Rawdon Crawley, her husband's rival in the 
old maid's five per cents ! They became very fond of each 
other's society, Mrs. Crawley and her nephew. He gave up 
hunting ; he declined entertainments at Fuddleston ; he 
would not dine with the mess of the depot at Mudbury ; his 
great pleasure was to stroll over to Crawley parsonage — 
whither Miss Crawley came too ; and as their mamma was ill, 
why not the children with Miss Sharp ? So the children 
(little dears !) came with Miss Sharp ; and of an evening 
some of the party would walk back together. Not Miss Craw- 
ley — she preferred her carriage — but the walk over the Rec- 
tory fields, and in at the little park wicket, and through the 
dark plantation, and up the checkered avenue to Queen's 
Crawley, was charming in the moonlight to two such lovers 
of the picturesque as the captain and Miss Rebecca. 

" Oh, those stars, those stars !" Miss Rebecca would say, 
turning her twinkling green eyes up toward them. " I feel 
myself almost a spirit when I gaze upon them." 

" Oh — ah — Gad — yes, so do I exactly. Miss Sharp," the 
other enthusiast replied. " You don't mind my cigar, do 
you. Miss Sharp ?" Miss Sharp loved the smell of a cigar 
out of doors beyond everything in the world — and she just 
tasted one too, in the prettiest way possible, and gave a little 
puff, and a little scream, and a little giggle, and restored the 
delicacy to the captain, who twirled his mustache, and 
straightway puffed it into ablaze that glowed quite red in the 
dark plantation, and swore, " Jove — aw — Gad — aw — it's the 
finest segaw I ever smoked in the world aw," for his intellect 
and conversation were alike brilliant and becoming to a heavy 
young dragoon. 

Old Sir Pitt, who was taking his pipe and beer, and talking 
to John Horrocks about a " ship" that was to be killed, espied 
the pair so occupied from his study-window, and with dread- 
ful oaths swore that if it wasn't for Miss Crawley he'd take 
Rawdon and bundle un out of doors, like a rogue as he 
was. 

" He be a bad 'n, sure enough," Mr. Horrocks remarked ; 
" and his man Flethers is wuss, and have made such a row in 
^he housekeeper's room about the dinners and hale as no lord 
would make : but I think Miss Sharp's a match for 'n, Sir 
Pitt," he added after a pause. 

And so, in truth, she was — for father and son too. 



QUITE A SENTIMENTAL CHAPTER. 



115 



CHAPTER XII. 



QUITE A SENTIMENTAL CHAPTER. 



E must now take leave of Arcadia, 
and those amiable people practising 
the rural virtues there, and travel 
back to London, to inquire what has 
become of Miss Amelia. " We don't 
care a fig for her, "writes some un- 
known correspondent with a pretty- 
little handwriting and a pink seal 
to her note. " She is fade and in- 
sipid," and adds some more kind 
remarks in this strain, which I 
should never have repeated at all 
but that they are in truth prodig- 
iously complimentary to the young 
lady whom they concern. 

Has the beloved reader, in his 
experience of society, never heard 
similar remarks by good-natured 
female friends, who always wonder 
what you can see in Miss Smith that is so fascinating, or what 
could \w&\ic^ Major Jones to propose for that silly, insignificant, 
simpering Miss Thompson, who has nothing but her wax-doll 
face to recommend her ? What is there in a pair of pink 
cheeks and blue eyes forsooth ? these dear moralists ask, and 
hint wisely that the gifts of genius, the accomplishments of 
the mind, the mastery of Mangnall's Questions, and a ladylike 
knowledge of botany and geology, the knack of making 
poetry, the power of rattling sonatas in the Herz manner, and 
so forth, are far more valuable endowments for a female than 
those fugitive charms which a few years will inevitably tar- 
nish. It is quite edifying to hear women speculate upon the 
worthlessness and the duration of beauty. 

But though virtue is a much finer thing, and those hapless 
creatures who suffer under the misfortune of good looks ought 
to be continually put in mind of the fate which awaits them ; 




Ii6 VANITY FAIR. 

and though, very likely, the heroic female character which 
ladies admire is a more glorious and beautiful object than the 
kind, fresh, smiling, artless, tender little domestic goddess 
whom men are inclined to worship — yet the latter and inferior 
sort of women must have this consolation — that the men do 
admire them after all ; and that, in spite of all our kind friends' 
warnings and protests, we go on in our desperate error and 
folly, and shall to the end of the chapter. Indeed, for my own 
part, though I have been repeatedly told by persons for whom 
I have the greatest respect, that Miss Brown is an insignificant 
chit, and Mrs. White has nothing but \\^r petit minois chiffonne, 
and Mrs. Black has not a word to say for herself, yet I know 
that I have had the most delightful conversations with Mrs. 
Black (of course, my dear madam, they are inviolable) ; I see 
all the men in a cluster round Mrs. White's chair ; all the young 
fellows battling to dance with Miss Brown ; and so I am 
tempted to think that to be despised by her sex is a very great 
compliment to a woman. 

The young ladies in Amelia's society did this for her very 
satisfactorily. For instance, there was scarcely any point 
upon which the Misses Osborne, George's sisters, and the 
Mesdemoiselles Dobbin agreed so well as in their estimate of 
her very trifling merits, and their wonder that their brothers 
could find any charms in her. " We are kind to her," the 
Misses Osborne said, a pair of fine, black-browed young ladies 
who had had the best of governesses, masters, and milliners ; 
and they treated her wath such extreme kindness and conde- 
scension, and patronized her so insufferably, that the poor 
little thing w^j-, in fact, perfectly dumb in their presence, and 
to all outward appearance as stupid as they thought her. She 
made efforts to like them, as in duty bound, and as sisters of 
her future husband. She passed " long mornings" with them 
— the most dreary and serious of forenoons. She drove out 
solemnly in their great family coach with them and Miss Wirt, 
their governess, that raw-boned vestal. They took her to the 
ancient concerts by way of a treat, and to the oratorio, and 
to St. Paul's to see the charity children, where in such terror 
was she of her friends she almost did not dare be affected by 
the hymn the children sang. Their house was comfortable ; 
their papa's table rich and handsome ; their society solemn 
and genteel ; their self-respect prodigious ; they had the best 
pew at the Foundling ; all their habits were pompous and 
orderly, and all their amusements intolerably dull and deco- 
rous. After every one of her visits (and oh, how glad she was 
when they were over !) Miss Osborne and Miss Maria Osborne, 



QUITE A SENTIMENTAL CHAPTER. iij 

and Miss Wirt, the vestal governess, asked each other with 
increased wonder, " What <:(?2^/^ George find in that creature ?" 

How is this ? some carping reader exclaims. How is it that 
Amelia, who had such a number of friends at school, and was 
so beloved there, comes out into the world and is spurned by 
her discriminating sex ? My dear sir, there were no men at 
Miss Pinkerton's establishment except the old dancing-master ; 
and you would not have had the girls fall out about Mm ? 
When George, their handsome brother, ran off directly after 
breakfast, and dined from home half a dozen times a week, 
no wonder the neglected sisters felt a little vexation. When 
young Bullock (of the firm of Hulker, Bullock & Co., Ban- 
kers, Lombard Street), who had been making up to Miss 
Maria the last two seasons, actually asked Amelia to dance the 
cotillon, could you expect that the former young lady should 
be pleased ? And yet she said she was, like an artless, for- 
giving creature. "I'm so delighted you like dear Amelia," 
she said quite eagerly to Mr. Bullock after the dance. " She's 
engaged to my brother George ; there's not much in her, but 
she's the best-natured and most unaffected young creature ; 
at home we're all so fond of her." Dear girl ! who can cal- 
culate the depth of affection expressed in that enthusiastic sof 

Miss Wirt and these two affectionate young women so ear- 
nestly and frequently impressed upon George Osborne's mind 
the enormity of the sacrifice he was making, and his romantic 
generosity in throwing himself away upon Amelia, that I'm 
not sure but that he really thought he was one of the most 
deserving characters in the British army, and gave himself up 
to be loved with a good deal of easy resignation. 

Somehow, although he left home every morning, as was 
stated, and dined abroad six days in the week, when his sis- 
ters believed the infatuated youth to be at Miss Sedley's 
apron-strings, he was not always with Amelia, while the world 
supposed him at her feet. Certain it is that on more occasions 
than one, when captain Dobbin called to look for his friend. 
Miss Osborne (who was very attentive to the captain, and anx- 
ious to hear his military stories, and to know about the health 
of his dear mamma) would laughingly point to the opposite 
side of the square, and say, " Oh, you must go to the Sedleys' 
to ask for George ; w^ never see him from morning till night." 
At which kind of speech the captain would laugh in rather an 
absurd, constrained manner, and turn off the conversation, 
like a consummate man of the world, to some topic of gen- 
eral interest, such as the opera, the Prince's last ball at Carl- 
ton House, or the weather — that blessing to society. 



ii8 VANITY FAIR. 

" What an innocent it is, that pet of yours," Miss Maria 
would then say to Miss Jane, upon the captain's departure. 
" Did you see how he blushed at the mention of poor George 
on duty ?" 

" It's a pity Frederick Bullock hadn't some of his modesty, 
Maria," replies the elder sister, with a toss of her head. 

" Modesty ! Awkwardness you mean, Jane. I don't want 
Frederick to trample a hole in my muslin frock, as Captain 
Dobbin did in yours at Mrs. Perkins'." 

" In jw/r frock, he, he ! How could he ? Wasn't he dancing- 
with Amelia ?" 

The fact is, when Captain Dobbin blushed so, and looked 
so awkward, he remembered a circumstance of which he did 
not think it was necessary to inform the young ladies, viz., 
that he had been calling at Mr. Sedley's house already, on 
the pretence of seeing George, of course, and George wasn't 
there, only poor little Amelia, with rather a sad, wistful face, 
seated near the drawing-room window, who, after some very 
trifling, stupid talk, ventured to ask, was there any truth in 
the report that the regiment was soon to be ordered abroad, 
and had Captain Dobbin seen Mr. Osborne that day ? 

The regiment was not ordered abroad as yet ; and Captain 
Dobbin had not seen George. " He was with his sister, most 
likely," the captain said. " Should he go and fetch the truant ?" 
So she gave him her hand kindly and gratefully, and he crossed 
the square ; and she waited and waited, but George never 
came. 

Poor little tender heart ! and so it goes on hoping and beat- 
ing, and longing and trusting. You see it is not much of a life 
to describe. There is not much of what you call incident in 
it. Only one feeling all day — when will he come ? only one 
thought to sleep and wake upon. I believe George was play- 
ing billiards with Captain Cannon in Swallow Street at the 
time when Amelia was asking Captain Dobbin about him ; for 
George was a jolly, sociable fellow, and excellent in all games 
of skill. 

Once, after three days of absence. Miss Amelia put on her 
bonnet, and actually invaded the Osborne house. " What I 
leave our brother to come to us?" said the young ladies. 
" Have you had a quarrel, Amelia ? Dotellus!" No, indeed, 
there had been no quarrel. " Who could quarrel with him ?" 
says she, with her eyes filled with tears. She only came over 
to — to see her dear friends ; they had not met for so long. 
And this day she was so perfectly stupid and awkward that 
the Misses Osborne and their governess, who stared after her 



QUITE A SENTIMENTAL CHAPTER. 



119* 



as she went sadly away, wondered more than ever what 
Georg-e could see in poor Amelia. 

Of course they, did. How was she to bare that timid little 
heart for the inspection of those young ladies with their bold 
black eyes ? It was best that it should shrink and hide itself. 



illiii. 



iiiiiii feM 




I know the Misses Osborne were excellent critics of a Cashmere 
shawl, or a pink satin slip; and when Miss Turner had hers 
dyed purple and made into a spencer, and when Miss Pick- 
ford had her ermine tippet twisted into a muff and trimmings, 
I warrant you the changes did not escape the two intelligent 
young women before mentioned. But there are things, look 
you, of a finer texture than fur or satin, and all Solomon's 
glories, and all the wardrobe of the Queen of Sheba — things. 



120 VANITY FAIR. 

whereof the beauty escapes the eyes of many connoisseurs. 
And there are sweet, modest little souls on which you light, 
fragrant and blooming tenderly m quiet, shady places ; and 
there are garden ornaments, as big as brass warming-pans, 
that are fit to stare the sun itself out of countenance. Miss 
Sedley was not of the sunflower sort ; and I say it is out of 
the rules of all proportion to draw a violet of the size of a 
double dahlia. 

No, indeed ; the life of a good young girl who is in the 
paternal nest as yet can't have many of those thrilling inci- 
dents to which the heroine of romance commonly lays claim. 
Snares or shot may take off the old birds foraging without 
— hawks may be abroad, from which they escape or by whom 
they suffer ; but the young ones in the nest have a pretty com- 
fortable, unromantic sort of existence in the down and the 
straw, till it comes to their turn, too, to get on the wing. 
While Becky Sharp was on her own wing in the country, hop- 
ping on all sorts of twigs, and amid a multiplicity of traps, and 
pecking up her food quite harmless and successful, Amelia lay 
snug in her home of Russell Square ; if she went into the 
world, it was under the guidance of the elders ; nor did it seem 
that any evil could befall her or that opulent, cheery, com- 
fortable home in which she was affectionately sheltered. 
Mamma had her morning duties, and her daily drive, and the 
delightful round of visits and shopping which forms the amuse- 
ment, or the profession as you may call it, of the rich London 
lady. Papa conducted his mysterious operations in the city — 
a stirring place in those days, when war was raging all over 
Europe and empires were being staked ; when the Courier 
newspaper had tens of thousands of subscribers ; when one 
day brought you a battle of Vittoria, another a burning of 
Moscow, or a newsman's horn blowing down Russell Square 
about dinner-time, announced such a fact as — " Battle of 
Leipsic — six hundred thousand men engaged — total defeat of 
the French — two hundred thousand killed." Old Sedley once 
or twice came home with a very grave face ; and no wonder, 
when such news as this was agitating all the hearts and all the 
Stocks of Europe. 

Meanwhile matters went on in Russell Square, Bloomsbury, 
just as if matters in Europe were not in the least disorgan- 
ized. The retreat from Leipsic made no difference in the num- 
ber of meals Mr. Sambo took in the servants' hall ; the allies 
poured into France, and the dinner-bell rang at five o'clock 
just as usual. I don't think poor Amelia cared anything about 
Brienne and Montmirail, or was fairly interested in the war 



QUITE A SENTIMENTAL CHAPTER. 12 r 

until the abdication of the Emperor, when she clapped her 
hands and said prayers — oh, how grateful ! and flung herself 
into George Osborne's arms with ail her soul, to the astonish- 
ment of everybody who witnessed that ebullition of sentiment. 
The fact is, peace was declared, Europe was going to be at 
rest ; the Corsican was overthrown, and Lieutenant Osborne's 
regiment would not be ordered on service. That was the way 
in which Miss Amelia reasoned. The fate of Europe was 
Lieutenant George Osborne to her. His dangers being over, 
she sang Te Deum. He was her Europe, her emperor, her 
allied monarchs and august prince regent. He was her sun 
and moon ; and I believe she thought the grand illumination 
and ball at the Mansion House, given to the sovereigns, were 
especially in honor of George Osborne. 

We have talked of shift, self, and poverty, as those dismal 
instructors under whom poor Miss Becky Sharp got her edu- 
cation. Now, love was Miss Amelia Sedley's last tutoress, 
and it was amazing what progress our young lady made 
under that popular teacher. In the course of fifteen or eighteen 
months' daily and constant attention to this eminent finishing 
governess, what a deal of secrets Amelia learned, which Miss 
Wirt and the black-eyed young ladies over the way, which old 
Miss Pinkerton of Chiswick herself, had no cognizance of ! 
As, indeed, how should any of those prim and reputable vir- 
gins ? With Misses P. and W. the tender passion is out of 
the question, I would not dare to breathe such an idea regard- 
ing them. Miss Maria Osborne, it is true, was " attached " 
to Mr. Frederick Augutus Bullock, of the firm of Hulker, 
Bullock & Bullock ; but hers was a most respectable attach- 
ment, and she would have taken Bullock Senior just the same, 
her mind being fixed — as that of a well-bred young woman 
should be — upon a house in Park Lane, a country house at 
Wimbledon, a handsome chariot, and two prodigious tall 
horses and footmen, and a fourth of the annual profits of the 
eminent firm of Hulker & Bullock, all of which advantages 
were represented in the person of Frederick Augustus. Had 
orange-blossoms been invented then (those touching emblems 
of female purity imported by us from France, where people's 
daughters are universally sold in marriage). Miss Maria, I 
say, would have assumed the spotless wreath, and stepped 
into the travelling carriage by the side of gouty, old, bald- 
headed, bottle-nosed Bullock Senior, and devoted her beau- 
tiful existence to his happiness with perfect modesty — only the 
old gentleman was married already ; so she bestowed her 



T22 VANITY FAIR. 

young affections on the junior partner. Sweet, blooming 
orange flowers ! The other day I saw Miss Trotter (that was) 
arrayed in them, trip into the travelling carriage at St. 
George's, Hanover Square, and Lord Methuselah hobbled in 
•after. With what an engaging modesty she pulled down the 
blinds of the chariot — the dear innocent ! There were half the 
•carriages of Vanity Fair at the wedding. 

This was not the sort of love that finished Amelia's educa- 
tion, and in the course of a year turned a good young girl into 
a good young woman — to be a good wife presently, when the 
happy time should come. This young person (perhaps it was 
very imprudent in her parents to encourage her and abet her 
in such idolatry and silly romantic ideas) loved, with all her 
heart, the young officer in His Majesty's service with whom we 
have made a brief acquaintance. She thought about him the 
very first moment on waking, and his was the very last name 
mentioned in her prayers. She never had seen a man so beau- 
tiful or so clever ; such a figure on horseback ; such a dancer ; 
such a hero in general. Talk of the Prince's bow ! what was 
it to George's ? She had seen Mr. Brummell, whom everybody 
praised so. Compare such a person as that to her George ! 
Not among all the beaux at the opera (and there were beaux 
in those days with actual opera hats) was there any one to 
equal him. He was only good enough to be a fairy prince ; 
and oh, what magnanimity to stoop to such a humble Cinder- 
ella ! Miss Pinkerton would have tried to check this blind 
devotion very likely had she been Amelia's confidante, but 
not with much success, depend upon it. It is in the nature 
and instinct of some women. Some are made to scheme, and 
some to love ; and I wish any respected bachelor that reads 
this may take the sort that best likes him. 

While under this overpowering impression. Miss Amelia 
neglected her twelve dear friends at Chiswick most cruelly, 
as such selfish people commonly will do. She had but this 
subject, of course, to think about ; and Miss Saltire was too 
cold for a confidante, and she couldn't bring her mind to tell 
Miss Swartz, the woolly-haired young heiress from St. Kitt's. 
She had little Laura Martin home for the holidays ; and my 
belief is, she made a confidante of her, and promised that 
Laura should come and live with her when she was married, 
and gave Laura a great deal of information regarding the 
passion of love, which must have been singularly useful and 
novel to that little person. Alas, alas ! I fear poor Emmy had 
not a well-regulated mind. 

What were her parents doing, not to keep this little heart 



QUITE A SENTIMENTAL CHAPTER. 123 

from beating so fast ? Old Sediey did not seem much to no- 
tice matters. He was graver of late, and his city affairs ab- 
sorbed him. Mrs. Sediey was of so easy and uninquisitive a 
nature that she wasn't even jealous. Mr. Jos was away, being 
besieged by an Irish widow at Cheltenham. Amelia had the 
house to herself — ah ! too much to herself sometimes — not 
that she ever doubted ; for, to be sure, George must be at the 
Horse Guards ; and he can't always get leave from Chat- 
ham ; and he must see his friends and sisters, and mingle in 
society when in town (he, such an ornament to every society !) 
iii\d when he is with the regiment, he is too tired to write long 
letters. I know where she kept that packet she had, and can 
steal in and out of her chamber like lachimo — like lachimo ! 
No — that is a bad part. I will only act Moonshine, and peep 
harmless into the bed where faith and beauty and innocence 
lie dreaming. 

But if Osborne's were short and soldier-like letters, it must 
be confessed that were Miss Sedley's letters to Mr. Osborne to 
be published, we should have to extend this novel to such a 
multiplicity of volumes as not the most sentimental reader 
could support ; that she not only filled large sheets of paper, 
but crossed them with the most astonishing perverseness ; that 
she wrote whole pages out of poetry-books without the least 
pity ; that she underlined words and passages with quite a 
frantic emphasis ; and, in fine, gave the usual tokens of her 
condition. She wasn't a heroine. Her letters were full of 
repetition. She wrote rather doubtful grammar sometimes, 
and in her verses took all sorts of liberties with the metre. 
But oh. mesdames, if you are not allowed to touch the heart 
sometimes in spite of syntax, and are not to be loved until 
you ail know the difference between trimeter and tetrameter, 
may ttu ooetrv go to the deuce, and every schoolmaster perish 
Kiis'^ra hi V \ 



12^ 



VANITY FAIR, 



CHAPTER XIII, 



SENTIMENTAL AND OTHERWISE. 




FEAR the gentleman to whom 
Miss Amelia's letters were ad- 
dressed was rather an obdurate 
critic. Such a number of notes 
followed Lieutenant Osborne 
about the country that he became 
almost ashamed of the jokes of 
his mess-room companions re- 
garding them, and ordered his 
servant never to deliver them ex- 
cept in his private apartment. 
He was seen lighting his cigar 
with one, to the horror of Cap- 
tain Dobbin, who, it is my belief, 
would have given a bank-note for the document. 

For some time George strove to keep the liaison a secret. 
There was a woman in the case, that he admitted. " And not 
the first either," said Ensign Spooney to Ensign Stubbie. 
" That Osborne's a devil of a fellow. There was a judge's 
daughter at Demerara went almost mad about him ; then 
there was that beautiful quadroon girl, Miss Pye, at St. 
Vincent's, you know ; and since he's been home, they say 
he's a regular Don Giovanni, by Jove." 

Stubble and Spooney thought that to be a " regular Lron 
Giovanni, by Jove, ' ' was one of the finest qualities a man could 
possess ; and Osborne's reputation was prodigious among the 
young men of the regiment. He was famous in field-sports, 
famous at a song, famous on parade ; free with his money, 
which was bountifully supplied by his father. His coats 
were better made than any man's in the regiment, and he 
had more of them. He was adored by the men. He could 
drink more than any officer of the whole mess, including old 
Heavytop, the colonel. He could spar better than Knuckles, 
the private (who would have been a corporal but for his drunk- 
enness, and who had been in the prize-ring), and was the beu 



SENTIMENTAL AND OTHERWISE, 125 

batter and bowler, out and out, of the regimental club. He 
rode his own horse, Greased Lightning, and won the Garri- 
son Cup at the Quebec races. There were other people be- 
sides Amelia w^ho worshipped him. Stubble and Spooney 
thought him a sort of Apollo ; Dobbin took him to be an Ad- 
mirable Crichton ; and Mrs. Major O'Dovvd acknowledged he 
was an elegant young fellow, and put her in mind of Fitz- 
jurld Fogarty, Lord Castlefogarty's second son. 

Well, Stubble and Spooney and the rest indulged in most 
romantic conjectures regarding this female correspondent of 
Osborne's — opining that it was a duchess in London who was 
in love with him ; or that it was a general's daughter, who 
was engaged to somebody else, and madly attached to him ; 
or that it was a member of Parliament's lady, who proposed 
four horses and an elopement ; or that it was some other victim 
of a passion delightfully exciting, romantic, and disgraceful 
to all parties — on none of which conjectures would Osborne 
throw the least light, leaving his young admirers and friends 
to invent and arrange their whole history. 

And the real state of the case would never have been known 
at all in the regiment but for Captain Dobbin's indiscretion. 
The captain was eating his breakfast one day in the mess- 
room, while Cackle, the assistant-surgeon, and the two above- 
named worthies were speculating upon Osborne's intrigue — 
Stubble holding out that the lady was a duchess about Queen 
Charlotte's court, and Cackle vowing she was an opera-singer 
of the worst reputation. At this idea Dobbin became so 
moved, that though his mouth was full of eggs and bread 
and butter at the time, and though he ought not to have 
spoken at all, yet he couldn't help blurting out, " Cackle, 
you're a stupid fool. You're always talking nonsense and 
scandal. Osborne is not going to run off with a duchess or 
ruin a milliner. Miss Sedley is one of the most charming 
)roung women that ever lived. He's been engaged to her 
ever so long ; and the man who calls her names had better 
not do so in my hearing." With which, turning exceedingly 
red, Dobbin ceased speaking, and almost choked himself with 
a cup of tea. The story was over the regiment in half an 
hour ; and that very evening Mrs. Major O'Dowd wrote off to 
her sister Glorvina at O'Dowdstown not to hurry from Dub- 
lin — young Osborne being prematurely engaged already. 

She complimented the lieutenant in an appropriate speech 
over a glass of whiskey toddy that evening, and he went 
home perfectly furious to quarrel with Dobbin (who had 
declined Mrs. Major O'Dowd's party, and sat in his own 



120 VANITY FAIR. 

room playing the flute, and, I believe, writing poetry, in a 
very melancholy manner) — to quarrel with Dobbin for betray- 
ing his secret. 

*' Who the deuce asked you to talk about my affairs ?" Os- 
borne shouted indignantly. "Why the devil is all the regi- 
ment to know that I am going to be married? Why is that 
tattling old harridan, Peggy O'Dowd, to make free with my 
name at her d — d supper-table, and advertise my engagement 
over the three kingdoms ? After all, what right have you 
to say I ajH engaged, or to meddle in my business at all, Dob- 
bin ?" 

" It seems to me — " Captain Dobbin began. 

" Seems be hanged," his junior interrupted him. " I am 
under obligations to you, I know it, a d — d deal too well too , 
but I won't be always sermonized by you because you're five 
years my senior. I'm hanged if I'll stand your airs of supe- 
riority and infernal pity and patronage. Pity and patronage ! 
I should like to know in what I'm your inferior ?" 

" Are you engaged ?" Captain Dobbin interposed. 

" What the devil's that to you or any one here if I am ?" 

" Are you ashamed of it ?" Dobbin resumed. 

" What right have you to ask me that question, sir? I 
should like to know," George said. 

'' Good God, you don't mean to say you want to break 
off?" asked Dobbin, starting up. 

" In other words, you ask me if I'm a m.an of honor," said 
Osborne fiercely ; "is that what you mean ? - You've adopted 

such a tone regarding me lately that I'm if I'll bear it any 

more." 

" What have I done? I've told you you were neglect- 
ing a sweet girl, George. I've told you that when you go 
to town you ought to go to her, and not to the gambling- 
houses about St. James's." 

" You want your money back, I suppose," said George, 
with a sneer. 

" Of course I do— I always did, didn't I ?" says Dobbin. 
" You speak like a generous fellow." 

" No, hang it, William, I beg your pardon" — here George 
interposed in a fit of remorse ; " you have been my friend in 
a hundred ways, Hectven knows. You've got me out of a 
score of scrapes. When Crawley of the Guards won that sum 
of money of me I should have been done but for you ; I 
know I should. But you shouldn't deal so hardly with me ; 
you shouldn't be always catechizing me. I am very fond of 
Amelia ; I adore her, and that sort of thing. Don't look 



SENTIMENTAL AND OTHERWISE. 1 27 

angry. She's faultless ; I know she is. But you see there's 
no fun in winning a thing unless you play for it. Hang it, the 
regiment's just back from the West Indies : I must have a 
little fling, and then, when I'm married, I'll reform ; I will 
upon my honor, now. And — I say — Dob — don't be angry 
with me, and I'll give you a hundred next month, when I 
know my father will stand something handsome ; and I'll ask 
Heavytop for leave, and I'll go to town, and see Amelia to- 
morrow — there now, will that satisfy you ?" 

" It is impossible to be long angry with you, George," said 
the good-natured captain ; " and as for the money, old boy, 
you know if I wanted it you'd share your last shilling with 
me." 

" That I would, by Jove, Dobbin," George said, with the 
greatest generosity, though, by the way, he never had any 
money to spare. 

" Only I wish you had sown those wild oats of yours^, 
George. If you could have seen poor little Miss Emmy's 
face when she asked me about you the other day, you 
would have pitched those billiard-balls to the deuce. Go and 
comfort her, you rascal. Go and write her a long letter. Do 
something to make her happy ; a very little will." 

" I believe she's d — d fond of me," the lieutenant said, 
with a self-satisfied air ; and went off to finish the evening 
with some jolly fellows in the mess-room. 

Amelia meanwhile, in Russell Square, was looking at the 
moon, which was shining upon that peaceful spot, as well as 
upon the square of the Chatham barracks, where Lieuten- 
ant Osborne was quartered, and thinking to herself how her 
hero was employed. Perhaps he is visiting the sentries, 
thought she ; perhaps he is bivouacking ; perhaps he is at- 
tending the couch of a wounded comrade, or studying the 
art of war up in his own desolate chamber. And her kind 
thoughts sped away as if they were angels and had wings, 
and flying down the river to Chatham and Rochester, strove 
to peep into the barracks where George was. . . . All 
things considered, I think it was as well the gates were shut, 
and the sentry allowed no one to pass ; so that the poor little 
white-robed angel could not hear the songs those young fel- 
lows were roaring over the whiskey-punch. 

The day after the little conversation at Chatham barracks, 
young Osborne, to show that he would be as good as his 
word, prepared to go to town, thereby incurring Captain Dob- 
bin's applause. " I should have liked to make her a little 
present," Osborne said to his friend in confidence, " only I 



128 



VANITY FAIR. 



am quite out of cash until my father tips up." But Dobbin 
would not allow this good-nature and generosity to be balked, 
and so accommodated Mr. Osborne with a few pound notes, 
which the latter took after a little faint scruple. 

And I dare say he would have bought something very hand- 
some for Amelia ; only, getting off the coach in Fleet Street, 
he was attracted by a handsome shirt-pin in a jeweller's win- 




dow, which he could not resist, and having paid for that 
had very little money to spare for indulging in any further 
exercise of kindness. Never mind : you may be sure it was 
not his presents Amelia wanted. When he came to Russell 
Square, her face lighted up as if he had been sunshine. 
The little cares, fears, tears, timid misgivings, sleepless 
fancies of I don't know how many days and nights, were for- 
gotten under one moment's influence of that familiar, irresist- 



SENTIMENTAL AND OTHERWISE. 129 

ible smile. He beamed on her from the drawing-room door 
— magnificent, with ambrosial whiskers, like a god. Sambo, 
whose face as he announced Captain Osbin (having con- 
ferred a brevet rank on that young officer) blazed with a 
sympathetic grin, saw the little girl start, and flush, and jump 
up from her watching-place in the window ; and Sambo re- 
treated ; and as soon as the door was shut, she went fluttering 
to Lieutenant George Osborne's heart as if it was the only 
natural home for her to nestle in. Oh, thou poor panting 
little soul ! The very finest tree in the whole forest, with 
the straightest stem, and the strongest arms, and the thick- 
est foliage, wherein you choose to build and coo, may be 
marked, for what you know, and may be down with a crash 
ere long. What an old, old simile that is, between man and 
timber ! 

In the mean while, George kissed her very kindly on her 
forehead and glistening eyes, and was very gracious and 
good ; and she thought his diamond shirt-pin (which she had 
not known him to wear before) the prettiest ornament ever 
seen. 

The observant reader, who has marked our young lieuten- 
ant's previous behavior, and has preserved our report of the 
brief conversation which he has just had with Captain Dobbin, 
has possibly come to certain conclusions regarding the char- 
acter of Mr. Osborne. Some cynical Frenchman has said that 
there are two parties to a love-transaction : the one who loves 
and the other who condescends to be so treated. Perhaps 
the love is occasionally on the man's side ; perhaps on the 
lady's. Perhaps some infatuated swain has ere this mis- 
taken insensibility for modesty, dulness for maiden reserve, 
mere vacuity for sweet bashfulness, and a goose, in a word, for 
a swan. Perhaps some beloved female subscriber has arrayed 
an ass in the splendor and glory of her imagination ; ad- 
mired his dulness as manly simplicity ; worshipped his sel- 
fishness as manly superiority ; treated his stupidity as majestic 
gravity, and used him as the brilliant fairy Titania did a cer- 
tain weaver at Athens. I think I have seen such comedies 
of errors going on in the world. But this is certain, that 
Amelia believed her lover to be one of the most gallant and 
brilliant men in the empire, and it is possible Lieutenant Os- 
borne thought so too. 

He was a little wild — how many young men are ; and don't 
girls like a rake better than a milksop ? He hadn't sown his 
wild oats as yet, but he would soon, and quit the army now 



130 VANITY FAIR. 

that peace was proclaimed, the Corsican monster locked up 
at Elba, promotion, by consequence, over, and no chance 
left for the display of his undoubted military talents and 
valor ; and his allowance, with Amelia's settlement, would en- 
able them to take a snug place in the country somewhere, in 
a good sporting neighborhood, and he would hunt a little, 
and farm a little, and they would be very happy. As for 
remaining in the army as a married man, that was impos- 
sible. Fancy Mrs. George Osborne in lodgings in a country 
town ; or, worse still, in the East or West Indies, with a so- 
ciety of officers, and patronized by Mrs. Major O'Dowd ! 
Amelia died with laughing at Osborne's stories about Mrs. 
Major O'Dowd. He loved her much too fondly to subject 
her to that horrid woman and her vulgarities, and the rough 
treatment of a soldier's wife. He didn't care for himself — 
not he ; but his dear little girl should take the place in so- 
ciety to which, as his wife, she was entitled, and to these 
proposals you may be sure she acceded, as she would to any 
other from the same author. 

Holding this kind of conversation, and building numberless 
castles in the air (which Amelia adorned with all sorts of 
flower-gardens, rustic walks, country churches, Sunday- 
schools, and the like, while George had his mind's eye di- 
rected to the stables, and kennel, and the cellar), this young 
pair passed away a couple of hours very pleasantly ; and as 
the lieutenant had only that single day in town, and a great 
deal of most important business to transact, it was proposed 
that Miss Emmy should dine with her future sisters-in-law. 
This invitation was accepted joyfully. He conducted her to 
his sisters, where he left her talking and prattling in a way 
that astonished those ladies, who thought that George might 
make something of her ; and he then went off to transact his 
business. 

In a word, he went out and ate ices at a pastry-cook's shop 
in Charing Cross ; tried a new coat in Pall Mall ; dropped in 
at the Old Slaughters', and called for Captain Cannon ; 
played eleven games at billiards with the captain, of which he 
won eight, and returned to Russell Square half an hour late 
for dinner, but in very good humor. 

It was not so with old Mr. Osborne. When that gentle- 
man came from the city, and was welcomed in the drawing- 
room by his daughters and the elegant Miss Wirt, they saw 
at once by his face— which was puffy, solemn, and yellow at 
the best of times — and by the scowl and twitching of his black 




Mb.. Osborne's Welcome to Amelia. 



SENTIMENTAL AND OTHERWISE. 13 1 

eyebrows, that the heart within his large white waistcoat was 
disturbed and uneasy. When Amelia stepped forward to 
salute him, which she always did with great trembling and 
timidity, he gave a surly grunt of recognition, and dropped 
the little hand out of his great hirsute paw without any at- 
tempt to hold it there. He looked round gloomily at his 
eldest daughter, who, comprehending the meaning of his look, 
which asked unmistakably, "Why the devil is she here?" 
said at once : 

" George is in town, papa, and has gone to the Horse 
Guards, and will be back to dinner." 

" Oh, he is, is he ? I won't have the dinner kept waiting for 
hi7n^ Jane ;" with which this worthy man lapsed into his par- 
ticular chair, and then the utter silence in his genteel, well- 
furnished drawing-room was only interrupted by the alarmed 
ticking of the great French clock. 

When that chronometer, which was surmounted by a cheer- 
ful brass group of the sacrifice of Iphigenia, tolled five in a 
heavy cathedral tone, Mr. Osborne pulled the bell at his right 
hand violently, and the butler rushed up. 

" Dinner !" roared Mr. Osborne. 

" Mr. George isn't come in, sir," interposed the man, 

" Damn Mr. George, sir. Am I master of the house ? Din- 
ner !" Mr. Osborne scowled. Amelia trembled. A telegraphic 
communication of eyes passed between the other three ladies. 
The obedient bell in the lower regions began ringing the an- 
nouncement of the meal. The tolling over, the head of the 
family thrust his hands into the great tail-pockets of his great 
blue coat and brass buttons, and without waiting for a further 
announcement, strode down-stairs alone, scowling over his 
shoulder at the four females. 

* ' What's the matter now, my dear ?' ' asked one of the other, 
as they rose and tripped gingerly behind the sire. 

" I suppose the funds are falling," whispered Miss Wirt ; 
and so, trembling and ia silence, this hushed female company 
followed their dark leader. They took their places in silence. 
He growled out a blessing, which sounded as gruffly as a 
curse. The great silver dish-covers were removed. Amelia 
trembled in her place, for she was next to the awful Osborne, 
and alone on her side of the table — the gap being occasioned 
by the absence of George. 

" Soup ?" says Mr. Osborne, clutching the ladle, fixing his 
eyes on her, in a sepulchral tone ; and having helped her and 
the rest, did not speak for a while. 

" Take Miss Sedley's plate away," at last he said. " She 



132 VANITY FAIR. 

can't eat the soup — no more can I. It's beastly. Take away 
the soup, Hicks, and to-morrow turn the cook out of the 
house, Jane." 

Having concluded his observations upon the soup, Mr. 
Osborne made a few curt remarks respecting the fish, also of 
a savage and satirical tendency, and cursed Billingsgate with 
an emphasis quite worthy of the place. Then he lapsed 
into silence, and swallowed sundry glasses of wine, looking 
more and more terrible, till a brisk knock at the door told of 
George's arrival, when everybody began to rally. 

" He could not come befoi^e. General Daguilet had kept 
him waiting at the Horse Guards. Never mind soup or fish. 
Give him anything — he didn't care what. Capital mutton — 
capital everything." His good humor contrasted with his 
father's severity ; and he rattled on unceasingly during din- 
ner, to the delight of all — of one especially, who need not 
be mentioned. 

As soon as the young ladies had discussed the orange and 
the glass of wine which formed the ordinary conclusion of the 
dismal banquets at Mr. Osborne's house, the signal to make 
sail for the drawing-room was given, and they all arose 
and departed. Amelia hoped George would soon join them 
there. She began playing some of his favorite waltzes (then 
newly imported) at the great carved-legged, leather-cased 
grand piano in the drawing-room overhead. This little arti- 
fice did not bring him. He was deaf to the waltzes ; they 
grew fainter and fainter ; the discomfited performer left the 
huge instrument presently ; and though her three friends 
performed some of the loudest and most brilliant new pieces 
of their 7'epertoire, she did not hear a single note, but sat 
thinking, and boding evil. Old Osborne's scowl, terrific al- 
ways, had never looked so deadly to her. His eyes followed 
her out of the room as if she had been guilty of something. 
When they brought her coffee, she started as though it were 
a cup of poison which Mr. Hicks, the butler, wished to pro- 
pose to her. What mystery was there lurking ? Oh, those 
women ! They nurse and cuddle their presentiments, and 
make darlings of their ugliest thoughts, as they do of their 
deformed children. 

The gloom on the paternal countenance had also impressed 
George Osborne with anxiety. With such eyebrows, and a 
look so decidedly bilious, how was he to extract that money 
from the governor, of which George was consumedly in 
want ? He began praising his father's wine. That was gen- 
erally a successful means of cajoling the old gentleman. 



SENTIMENTAL AND OTHERWISE. 133 

** We never got such Madeira in the West Indies, sir, as 
yours. Colonel Heavytop took off three bottles of that you 
sent me down, under his belt the other day." 

" Did he ?" said the old gentleman. " It stands me in eight 
shillings a bottle." 

"Will you take six guineas a dozen for it, sir?" said 
George, with a laugh. " There's one of the greatest men in 
the kingdom wants some." 

" Does he ?" growled the senior. " Wish he may get it." 

" When General Daguilet was at Chatham, sir, Heavytop 
gave him a breakfast, and asked me for some of the wine. 
The general liked it just as well — wanted a pipe for the 
commander-in-chief. He's his Royal Highness's right-hand 
man." 

" It is devilish fine wine," said the Eyebrows, and they 
looked more good-humored ; and George was going to take 
advantage of this complacency, and bring the supply ques- 
tion on the m.ahogany, when the father, relapsing into sol- 
emnity, though rather cordial in manner, bade him ring the 
bell for claret. " And we'll see if that's as good as the Ma- 
deira, George, to which his Royal Highness is welcome, 
I'm sure. And as we are drinking it, I'll talk to you about 
a matter of importance." 

Amelia heard the claret bell ringing as she sat nervously 
up-stairs. She thought, somehow, it was a mysterious and 
presentimental bell. Of the presentiments which some peo- 
ple are always having, some surely must come right. 

" What I want to know, George," the old gentleman said, 
after slowly smacking his first bumper — ' ' what I want to know 
is, how you and — ah — that little thing up-stairs are carrying 
on ?" 

" I think, sir, it's not hard to see," George said, with a self- 
satisfied grin. " Pretty clear, sir. What capital wine !" 

" What d'you mean, pretty clear, sir?" 

" Why, hang it, sir, don't push me too hard. I'm a modest 
man I — ah — I don't set up to be a lady-killer ; but I do own 
that she's as devilish fond of me as she can be. Anybody can 
see that with half an eye." 

" And you yourself ?" 

" Why, sir, didn't you order me to marry her, and a'n't 
I a good boy ? Haven't our papas settled it ever so long ?" 

" A pretty boy, indeed. Haven't I heard of your doings, 
sir, with Lord Tarquin, Captain Crawley of the Guards, the 
Honorable Mr. Deuceace and that set ? Have a care, sir 
liave a care." 



134 VANITY FAIR. 

The old gentleman pronounced these aristocratic names 
with the greatest gusto. Whenever he met a great man he 
grovelled before him, and my-lorded him as only a free- 
born Briton can do. He came home and looked out his his- 
tory in the Peerage ; he introduced his name into his daily 
conversations ; he bragged about his lordship to his daugh- 
ters. He fell down prostrate and basked in him as a Neapoli- 
tan beggar does in the sun. George was alarmed when he 
heard the names. He feared his father might have been in- 
formed of certain transactions at play. But the old moralist 
eased him by saying serenely, 

" Well, well, young men will be young men. And the com- 
fort to me is, George, that living in the best society in Eng- 
land, as I hope you do, as I think you do, as my means will 
allow you to do — " 

" Thank you, sir," says George, making his point at once. 
" One can't live with these great folks for nothing ; and my 
purse, sir, look at it ;" and he held up a little token which 
had been netted by Amelia, and contained the very last of 
Dobbin's pound notes. 

" You sha'n't want, sir. The British merchant's son sha'n't 
want, sir. My guineas are as good as theirs, George, my 
boy ; and I don't grudge 'em. Call on Mr. Chopper as you 
go through the city to-morrow ; he'll have something for you. 
I don't grudge money when I know you're in good society, 
because I know that good society can never g*o wrong. There's 
no pride in me. I was a humbly-born man — but you have 
had advantages. Make a good use of 'em. Mix with the 
young nobility. There's many of 'em who can't spend a 
dollar to your guinea, my boy. And as for the pink bon- 
nets (here from under the heavy eyebrows there came a know- 
ing and not very pleasing leer) — why boys will be boys. Only 
there's one thing I order you to avoid, which, if you do not, 
I'll cut you off with a shilling, by Jove ; and that's gambling, 
sir." 

" Oh, of course, sir," said George. 

" But to return to the other business about Amelia : why 
shouldn't you marry higher than a stock-broker's daughter, 
George — that's what I want to know." 

" It's a family business, sir," says George, cracking filberts. 
" You and Mr. Sedley made the match a hundred years 
ago." 

" I don't deny it ; but people's positions alter, sir. I don't 
deny that Sedley made my fortune, or rather put me in the 
way of acquiring, by my own talents and genius, that proud 



SENTIMENTAL AND OTHERWISE. 13 S 

position which, I may say, I occupy in the tallow trade and 
the City of London. I've showp my gratitude to Sedley \ 
and he's tried it of late, sir, as my check-book can show. 
George ! I tell you in confidence I don't like the looks of 
Mr. Sedley's affairs. My chief clerk, Mr. Chopper, does not 
like the looks of 'em, and he's an old file, and knows 'Change 
as well as any man in London. Hulker & Bullock are look- 
ing shy at him. He's been dabbling on his own account I 
fear. They say the Jeune Amelie was his, which was taken 
by the Yankee privateer Molasses. And that's flat — unless I 
see Amelia's ten thousand down, you don't marry her. I'll 
have no lame duck's daughter in my family. Pass the wine, 
sir — or ring for coffee." 

With which Mr. Osborne spread out the evening paper, and 
George knew from this signal that the colloquy was ended, 
and that his papa was about to take a nap. 

He hurried up-stairs to Amelia in the highest spirits. What 
was it that made him more attentive to her on that night than 
he had been for a long time — more eager to amuse her, more 
tender, more brilliant in talk ? Was it that his generous 
heart warmed to her at the prospect of misfortune, or that 
the idea of losing the dear little prize made him value it 
more ? 

She lived upon the recollections of that happy evening for 
many days afterward, remembering his words ; his looks ; 
the song he sang ; his attitude, as he leaned over her or looked 
at her from a distance. As it seemed to her, no night ever 
passed so quickly at Mr. Osborne's house before, and for 
once this young person was almost provoked to be angry by 
the premature arrival of Mr. Sambo with her shawl. 

George came and took a tender leave of her the next morn- 
ing, and then hurried off to the City, where he visited Mr. 
Chopper, his father's head man, and received from that gen- 
tleman a document which he exchanged at Hulker & Bul- 
lock's for a whole pocket full of money. As George entered 
the house, old John Sedley was passing out of/ the banker's 
parlor, looking very illsmal. But his godson was much toO' 
elated to mark the worthy stockbroker's depression, or the 
dreary eyes which the kind old gentleman cast upon him. 
Young Bullock did not come grinning out of the parlor with 
him, as had been his wont in former years. 

And as the swinging doors of Hulker, Bullock & Co. closed 
upon Mr. Sedley, Mr. Quill, the cashier (whose benevolent 
occupation it is to hand out crisp bank-notes from a drawer 
and dispense sovereigns out of a copper shovel), winked at 



136 



VANITY FAIR, 



Mr. Driver, the clerk at the desk on his right. Mr. Driver 
winked again. 

" No go," Mr. D. whispered. 

" Not at no price," Mr. Q. said. "Mr. George Osborne, 
sir, how will you take it ?" George crammed eagerly a quan- 
tity of notes into his pockets, and paid Dobbin fifty pounds 
that very evening at mess. 

That very evening Amelia wrote him the tenderest of long 
letters. Her heart was overflowing with tenderness, but it 
still foreboded evil. What was the cause of Mr. Osborne's 
dark looks ? she asked. Had any difference arisen between 
him and her papa ? Her poor papa returned so melancholy 
from the City, that all were alarmed about him at home — in 
fine, there were four pages of loves and fears and hopes and 
forebodings. 

" Poor little Emmy— dear little Emmy. How fond she is 
of me !" George said, as he perused the missive — " and, Gad, 
what a headache that mixed punch has given me !" Poor 
little Emmy, indeed. 




UJ^ 



MISS CRA WLE Y AT HOME, 



37 



CHAPTER XIV. 



MISS CRAWLEY AT HOME. 




BOUT this time there drove up to 
an exceedingly snug and well-ap- 
pointed house in Park Lane a 
travelling chariot with a lozenge 
on the panels, a discontented fe- 
male in a green veil and crimped 
curls on the rumble, and a large 
and confidential man on the box. 
It was the equipage of our friend 
Miss Crawley, returning from 
Hants. The carriage windows 
\ were shut ; the fat spaniel, whose 
"" head and tongue ordinarily lolled 
out of one of them, reposed on the lap of the discontented 
female. When the vehicle stopped, a large round bundle of 
shawls was taken out of the carriage by the aid of various 
domestics and a young lady who accompanied the heap of 
cloaks. That bundle contained Miss Crawley, who was con- 
veyed up-stairs forthwith, and put into a bed and chamber 
warmed properly as for the reception of an invalid. Messen- 
gers went off for her physician and medical man. They came, 
consulted, prescribed, vanished. The young companion of 
Miss Crawley, at the conclusion of the interview, came in to 
receive their instructions, and administered those antiphlo- 
gistic medicines which the eminent men ordered. 

Captain Crawley of the Life Guards rode up from Knights- 
bridge Barracks the next day ; his black charger pawed the 
straw before his invalid aunt's door. He was most affection- 
ate in his inquiries regarding that amiable relative. There 
seemed to be much source of apprehension. He found Miss 
Crawley's maid (the discontented female) unusually sulky and 
despondent ; he found Miss Briggs, her damede compagnie, 
in tears alone in the drawing-room. She had hastened home, 
hearing of her beloved friend's illness. She wished to fly 
to her couch, that couch which she, Briggs, had so often 



138 VANITY FAIR. 

smoothed in the hour of sickness. She was denied admission 
to Miss Crawley's apartment. A stranger was administering 
her medicines — a stranger from the country — an odious Miss 
, . . . — tears choked the utterance of the dame de com- 
pagnie, and she buried her crushed affections and her poor old 
red nose in her pocket handkerchief, 

Rawdon Crawley sent up his name by the sulky femme de 
chambre, and Miss Crawley's new companion, coming tripping 
•down from the sick-room, put a little hand into his as he 
stepped forward eagerly to meet her, gave a glance of great 
scorn at the bewildered Briggs, and beckoning the young 
Guardsman out of the back drawing-room, led him down- 
stairs into that now desolate dining-parlor, where so many a 
good dinner had been celebrated. 

Here these two talked for ten minutes, discussing, no doubt, 
the symptoms of the old invalid up-stairs ; at the end of which 
period the parlor bell was rung briskly, and answered on that 
instant by Mr. Bowls, Miss Crawley's large, confidential but- 
ler (who, indeed, happened to be at the keyhole during the 
most part of the interview) ; and the captain coming out, curl- 
ing his moustachios, mounted the black charger pawing among 
the straw, to the admiration of the little blackguard boys col- 
lected in the street. He looked in at the dining-room window, 
managing his horse, which curvetted and capered beautifully ; 
for one instant the young person might be seen at the window, 
Ti^hen her figure vanished, and, doubtless, she went up-stairs 
again to resume the affecting duties of benevolence. 

Who could this young woman be, I wonder ? That evening 
a little dinner for two persons was laid in the dining-room — 
when Mrs. Firkin, the lady's-maid, pushed into her mistress's 
apartment, and bustled about there during the vacancy occa- 
sioned by the departure of the new nurse — and the latter and 
Miss Briggs sat down to the neat little meal. 

Briggs was so much choked by emotion that she could 
hardly take a morsel of meat. The young person carved a 
fowl with the utmost delicacy, and asked so distinctly for 
^^^ sauce that poor Briggs, before whom that delicious con- 
diment was placed, started, made a great clattering with the 
ladle, and once more fell back in the most gushing, hysterical 
state. 

" Had you not better give Miss Briggs a glass of wine ?" 
said the person to Mr. Bowls, the large, confidential man. 
He did so. Briggs seized it mechanically, gasped it down 
convulsively, moaned a little, and began to play with the 
chicken on her plate. 



MISS CRAWLEY AT HOME. 139 

" I think we shall be able to help each other," said the per- 
son with great suavity; "and shall have no need of Mr. 
Bowls's kind services. Mr. Bowls, if you please, we will ring 
when we want you. ' He went down-stairs, where, by the way, 
he vented the most horrid curses upon the unoffending foot- 
man, his subordinate, 

" It is a pity you take on so, Miss Briggs," the young lady 
said, with a cool, slightly sarcastic air. 

" My dearest friend is so ill, and wo — o — o — on't see me," 
gurgled out Briggs in an agony of renewed grief. 

" She's not very ill any more. Console yourself, dear Miss 
Briggs. She has only overeaten herself — that is all. She is 
greatly better. She will soon be quite restored again. She 
is weak from being cupped and from medical treatment, but 
she will rally immediately. Pray console yourself, and take a 
little more wine." 

" But why, why won't she see me again ?" Miss Briggs 
bleated out. " Oh, Matilda, Matilda, after three-and-twenty 
years' tenderness ! is this the return to your poor, poor Ara- 
bella ?" 

" Don't cry too much, poor Arabella," the other said (with 
ever so little of a grin) ; " she only won't see you, because she 
says you don't nurse her as well as I do. It's no pleasure to 
me to sit up all night. I wish you might do it instead." 

" Have I not tended that dear couch for years ?" Arabella 
said, "and now — " 

" Now she prefers somebody else. Well, sick people have 
these fancies, and must be humored. When she's well I shall 
go." 

'" Never, never!" Arabella exclaimed, madly inhaling her 
salts-bottle. 

" Never be well or never go, Miss Briggs ?" the other said 
with the same provoking good- nature. "Pooh — she will be 
well in a fortnight, when I shall go back to my little pupils at 
Queen's Crawley, and to their mother, who is a great deal 
more sick than our friend. You need not be jealous about 
me, my dear Miss Briggs. I am a poor little girl without 
any friends or any harm in me. I don't want to supplant 
you in Miss Crawley's good graces. She will forget me a week 
after I am gone ; and her affection for you has been the work 
of years. Give me a little wine if you please, my dear Miss 
Briggs, and let us be friends. I'm sure I want friends." 

The placable and soft-hearted Briggs speechlessly pushed 
out her hand at this appeal ; but she felt the desertion most 
keenly for all that, and bitterly, bitterly moaned the fickleness 



I40 VANITY FAIR. 

of her Matilda. At the end of half an hour, the meal over. 
Miss Rebecca Sharp (for such, astonishing to state, is the name 
of her who has been described ingeniously as " the person" 
hitherto) went up-stairs again to her patient's rooms, from 
which, with the most engaging politeness, she eliminated poor 
Firkin, " Thank you. Miss Firkin, that will quite do ; how 
nicely you make it ! I will ring when anything is wanted. 
Thank you ;" and Firkin came down-stairs in a tempest of 
jealous)^, only the more dangerous because she was forced to 
confine it in her own bosom. 

Could it be the tempest which, as she passed the landing of 
the first floor, blew open the drawing-room door ? No ; it was 
stealthily opened by the hand of Briggs. Briggs had been on 
the watch. Briggs too well heard the creaking Firkin descend 
the stairs, and the clink of the spoon and gruel-basin the neg- 
lected female carried. 

" Well, Firkin ?" says she, as the other entered the apart- 
ment. " Well, Jane ?" 

" Wuss and wuss. Miss B.," Firkin said, wagging her head. 

" Is she not better then ?" 

" She never spoke but once, and I asked her if she felt a 
little more easy, and she told me to hold my stupid tongue. 
Oh, Miss B., I never thought to have seen this day !" And 
the water-works again began to play. 

" What sort of a person is this Miss Sharp, Firkin ? I little 
thought, while enjoying my Christmas revels in the elegant 
home of my firm friends, the Reverend Lionel Delamere and 
his amiable lady, to find a stranger had taken my place in the 
affections of my dearest, my still dearest Matilda !" Miss 
Briggs, it will be seen by her language, was of a literary and. 
sentimental turn, and had once published a volume of poems 
— " Trills of the Nightingale" — by subscription. 

' ' Miss B, , they are all infatyated about that young woman, ' ' 
Firkin replied. " Sir Pitt wouldn't have let her go, but he 
(laredn't refuse Miss Crawley anything. Mrs. Bute at the 
Rectory is jist as bad' — never happy out of her sight. The 
Capting quite wild about her. Mr. Crawley mortial jealous. 
Since Miss C. was took ill, she won't have nobody near her 
but Miss Sharp, I can't tell for where nor for why ; and I 
think somethink has bewidged everybody." 

Rebecca passed that night in constant watching upon Miss 
Crawley ; the next night- the old lady slept so comfortably 
that Rebecca had time for several hours' comfortable repose 
herself on the sofa, at the foot of her patroness's bed ; very 
soon, Miss Crawley was so well that she sat up and laughed 



MISS CRA WLE Y AT HOME.. 141 

heartily at a perfect ivTiitation of Miss Briggs and her grief, 
which Rebecca described to her. Briggs's weeping snuffle and 
her manner of using the handkerchief were. so completely ren- 
dered, that Miss Crawley became quite cheerful, to the admi- 
ration of the doctors when they visited her, who usually found 
this worthy woman of the world, when the least sickness at- 
tacked her, under the most abject depression and terror of 
death. 

Captain Crawley came every day, and received bulletins 
from Miss Rebecca respecting his aunt's health. This im- 
proved so rapidly that poor Briggs was allowed to see her 
patroness ; and persons with tender hearts may imagine the 
smothered emotions of that sentimental female, and the affect- 
ing nature of the interview. 

Miss Crawley liked to have Briggs in a good deal soon. 
Rebecca used to mimic her to her face with the most admira- 
ble gravity, thereby rendering the imitation doubly piquant to 
her worthy patroness. 

The causes which had led to the deplorable illness of Miss 
Crawley, and her departure from her brother's house in the 
country, were of such an unromantic nature that they are 
hardly fit to be explained in this genteel and sentimental 
novel. For how is it possible to hint of a delicate female, 
living in good society, that she ate and drank too much, and 
that a hot supper of lobsters, profusely enjoyed at the Rectory, 
was the reason of an indisposition which Miss Crawley herself 
persisted was solely attributable to the dampness of the 
weather? The attack 'was so sharp that Matilda — as his Rev- 
erence expressed it — was very nearly " off the hooks ;" all the 
family were in a fev^r of expectation regarding the will, and 
Rawdon Crawley v. as making sure of at least forty thousand 
pounds before the commencement of the London season. Mr. 
Crawley sent over a choice parcel of tracts, to prepare her for 
the change from Vanity Fair and Park Lane for another world ; 
but a good doctor from Southampton being called in in time 
vanquished the lobster which was so nearly fatal to her, and 
gave her sufficient strength to enable her to return to London. 
The baronet did not disguise his exceeding mortification at 
the turn which affairs took. 

While everybody was attending on Miss Crawley, and mes- 
sengers every hour from the Rectory were carrying news of 
her health to the affectionate folks there, there was a lady in 
another part of the house, being exceedingly ill, of whom no 
one took any notice at all ; and this was the lady of Crawley 



142 VANITY FAIR, 

herself. The good doctor shook his head after seeing her : 
to which visit Sir Pitt consented, as it could be paid without 
a fee ; and she was left fading away in her lonely cham- 
ber, with no more heed paid to her than to a weed in the 
park. 

The young ladies, too, lost much of the inestimable benefit 
of their governess's instruction. So affectionate a nurse was 
Miss Sharp, that Miss Crawley would take her medicines from 
no other hand. Firkin had been deposed long before her mis- 
tress's departure from the country. That faithful attendant 
found a gloomy consolation, on returning to London, in 
seeing Miss Briggs suffer the same pangs of jealousy and un- 
dergo the same faithless treatment to which she herself had 
been subject. 

Captain Rawdon got an extension of leave on his aunt's ill- 
ness, and remained dutifully at home. He was always in her 
antechamber. (She lay sick in the state bedroom, into which 
you entered by the little blue saloon.) His father was always 
meeting him there ; or if he came down the corridor ever so 
quietly, his father's door was sure to open, and the hyena face 
of the old gentleman to glare out. What was it set one to 
watch the other so ? A generous rivalry, no doubt, as to which 
should be most attentive to the dear sufferer in the state bed- 
room. Rebecca used to come out and comfort both of them ; 
or one or the other of them rather. Both of these worthy 
gentlemen were most anxious to have news of the invalid from 
her little confidential messenger. 

At dinner — to which meal she descended for half an hour — 
she kept the peace between them ; after which she disappeared 
for the night ; when Rawdon would ride over to the depot of 
the 150th at Mudbury, leaving his papa to the society of Mr. 
Horrocks and his rum and water. She passed as weary a fort- 
night as ever mortal spent in Miss Crawley's sick-room, but 
her little nerves seemed to be of iron, as she was quite un- 
shaken by the duty and the tedium of the sick-chamber. 

She never told until long afterward how painful that duty 
was ; how peevish a patient was the jovial old lady ; how 
angry ; how sleepless ; in what horrors of death ; during what 
long nights she lay moaning, and in almost delirious agonies 
respecting that future world which she quite ignored when 
she was in good health. Picture to yourself, oh, fair young 
reader, a worldly, selfish, graceless, thankless, religionless old 
woman, writhing in pain and fear, and without her wig. Pic- 
ture her to yourself, and ere you be old, learn to love and 
pray ! 



MISS CRA WLE Y AT HOME. 143 

Sharp watched this graceless bedside with indomitable pa- 
tience. Nothing escaped her ; and, like a prudent steward, 
she found a use for everything. She told many a good story 
about Miss Crawley's illness in after-days — stories which made 
the lady blush through her artificial carnations. During the 
illness she was never out of temper ; always alert : she slept 
light, having a perfectly clear conscience ; and could take that 
refreshment at almost any minute's warning. And so you 
saw very few traces of fatigue in her appearance. Her face 
might be a trifle paler, and the circles round her eyes a little 
blacker than usual ; but whenever she came out from the sick- 
room she was always smiling, fresh, and neat, and looked as 
trim in her little dressing-gown and cap as in her smartest 
evening suit. 

The captain thought so, and raved about her in uncouth 
convulsions. The barbed shaft of love had penetrated his dull 
hide. Six weeks — appropinquity — opportunity — had victim- 
ized him completely. He made a confidante of his aunt at the 
Rectory, of all persons in the world. She rallied him about 
it ; she, had perceived his folly ; she warned him ; she fin- 
ished by owning that little Sharp was the most clever, droll, 
odd, good-natured, simple, kindly creature in England. Raw- 
don must not trifle with her affections, though — dear Miss 
Crawley would never pardon him for that ; for she, too, was 
quite overcome by the little governess, and loved Sharp like a 
daughter. Rawdon must go away — go back to his regiment 
and naughty London, and not play with a poor artless girl's 
feelings. 

Many and many a time this good-natured lady, compas- 
sionating the forlorn life-guardsman's condition, gave him an 
opportunity of seeing Miss Sharp at the Rectory, and of walk- 
ing home with her, as we have seen. When men of a certain 
sort, ladies, are in love, though they see the hook and the 
string, and the whole apparatus with which they are to be 
taken, they gorge the bait nevertheless — they must come to 
it — they must swallow it — and are presently struck and landed 
gasping. Rawdon saw there was a manifest intention on Mrs. 
Bute's part to captivate him with Rebecca. He was not very 
wise ; but he was a man about town, and had seen several 
seasons. A light dawned upon his dusky soul, as he thought, 
through a speech of Mrs. Bute's. 

" Mark my words, Rawdon," she said. " You will have 
Miss Sharp one day for your relation." 

"What relation — my cousin, hey, Mrs. Bute ? James sweet 
on her, hey ?" inquired the waggish officer. 



144 VANITY FAIR. 

" More than that," Mrs. Bute said, with a flash from her 
black eyes. 

" Not Pitt ? He sha'n't have her. The sneak a'n't worthy 
of her. He's booked to Lady Jane Sheepshanks." 

" You men perceive nothing. You silly, blind creature — 
if anything happens to Lady Crawley, Miss Sharp will be 
your mother-in-law ; and //z^/'j-what will happen." 

Rawdon Crawley, Esquire, gave vent to a prodigious whis- 
tle in token of astonishment at this announcement. He 
couldn't deny it. His father's evident liking for Miss Sharp 
had not escaped him. He knew the old gentleman's char- 
acter well ; and a more unscrupulous old — whyou — he did 
not conclude the sentence, but walked home, curling mous- 
tachios, and convinced he had found a clew to Mrs. Bute's his 
mystery. 

" By Jove, it's too bad," thought Rawdon, " too bad, by 
Jove ! I do believe the woman wants the poor girl to be 
ruined, in order that she shouldn't come into the family as 
Lady Crawley." 

When he saw Rebecca alone, he rallied her about his fa- 
ther's attachment in his graceful way. She flung up her head 
scornfully, looked him full in the face, and said, 

" Well, suppose he is fond of me. I know he is, and others 
too. You don't think I am afraid of him, Captain Crawley ? 
You don't suppose I can't defend my own honor," said the 
little woman, looking as stately as a queen. 

" Oh, ah, why — give you fair warning — look out, you know 
— that's all," said the moustachio-twiddler. 

" You hint at something not honorable, then ?" said she, 
flashing out. 

" O — Gad — really — Miss Rebecca," the heavy dragoon in- 
terposed. 

" Do you suppose I have no feeling of self-respect, because 
I am poor and friendless, and because rich people have none ? 
Do you think, because I am a governess, I have not as much 
sense, and feeling, and good breeding as you gentle-folks in 
Hampshire ? I'm a Montmorency. Do you suppose a Mont- 
morency is not as good as a Crawley ?" 

When Miss Sharp was agitated, and alluded to her mater- 
nal relatives, she spoke with ever so slight a foreign accent, 
which gave a great charm to her clear, ringing voice. "No," 
she continued, kindling as she spoke to the captain ; "I 
can endure poverty, but not shame — neglect, but not insult ; 
and insult from — iromjm^/' 

Her feelings gave way, and she burst into tears. 






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MISS CRAWLEY AT HOME. 145 

" Hang it, Miss Sharp — Rebecca — by Jove — upon my soul, 
I wouldn't for a thousand pounds. Stop, Rebecca !" 

She was gone. She drove out with Miss Crawley that day. 
It was before the latter's illness. At dinner she was unusu- 
ally brilliant and lively ; but she would take no- notice of the 
hints or the nods or the clumsy expostulations of the humil- 
iated, infatuated guardsman. Skirmishes of this sort passed 
perpetually during the little campaign — tedious to relate, and 
similar in result. The Crawley heavy cavalry was maddened 
by defeat, and routed every day. 

If the baronet of Queen's Crawley had not had the fear of 
losing his sister's legacy before his eyes, he never would have 
permitted his dear girls to lose the educational blessings which 
their invaluable governess was conferring upon them. The 
old house at home seemed a desert without her, so useful and 
pleasant had Rebecca made herself there. Sir Pitt's letters 
were not copied and corrected ; his books not made up ; his 
household business and manifold schemes neglected, now that 
his little secretary was away. And it was easy to see how 
necessary such an amanuensis was to him, by the tenor and 
spelling of the numerous letters which he sent to her, entreating 
her and commanding her to return. Almost every day brought 
a frank from the baronet, inclosing the most urgent prayers 
to Becky for her return, or conveying pathetic statements to 
Miss Crawley, regarding the neglected state of his daughters' 
education ; of which documents Miss Crawley took very little 
heed. 

Miss Briggs was not formally dismissed, but her place as 
companion was a sinecure and a derision ; and her company 
was the fat spaniel in the drawing-room, or occasionally the 
discontented Firkin in the housekeeper's closet. Nor, though 
the old lady would by no means hear of Rebecca's departure, 
was the latter regularly installed in office in Park Lane. Like 
many wealthy people, it was Miss Crawley's habit to accept as 
much service as she could get from her inferiors, and good- 
naturedly to take leave of them when she no longer found 
them useful. Gratitude among certain rich folks is scarcely 
natural or to be thought of. They take needy people's ser- 
vices as their due. Nor have you, O poor parasite and hum- 
ble hanger-on, much reason to complain ! Your friendship 
for Dives is about as sincere as the return which it usually 
gets. It is money you love, and not the man ; and were Croe- 
sus and his footman to change places, you know, you poor 
rogue, who would have the benefit of your allegiance. 



i46 VANITY FAIR. 

And I am not sure that, in spite of Rebecca's simplicity 
and activity, and gentleness, and untiring good humor, the 
shrewd old London lady upon whom these treasures of friend- 
ship were lavished had not a lurking suspicion all the while 
of her affectionate nurse and friend. It must have often 
crossed Miss Crawley's mind that nobody does anything for 
nothing. If she measured her own feelings toward the world, 
she must have been pretty well able to gauge those of the 
world toward herself ; and perhaps she reflected that it is the 
ordinary lot of people to have no friends if they themselves 
care for nobody. 

Well, meanwhile Becky was the greatest comfort and con- 
venience to her, and she gave her a couple of new gowns, and 
an old necklace and shawl, and showed her friendship by abus- 
ing all her intimate acquaintances to her new confidante (than 
which there can't be a more touching proof of regard), and 
meditated vaguely some great future benefit — to marry her 
perhaps to Clump, the apothecary, or to settle her in some 
advantageous way of life ; cr at any rate to send her back to 
Queen's Crawley when she had done with her, and the full 
London season had begun. 

When Miss Crawley was convalescent and descended to the 
drawing-room, Becky sang to her and otherwise amused her ; 
when she was well enough to drive out, Becky accompanied 
her. And among the drives which they took, whither, of all 
places in the world, did Miss Crawley's admirable good-nat- 
ure and friendship actually induce her to penetrate but to 
Russell Square, Bloomsbury, and the house of John Sedley, 
Esquire. 

Ere that event, many notes had passed, as may be imagined^ 
between the two dear friends. During the months of Rebec- 
ca's stay in Hampshire, the eternal friendship had (must it be 
owned ?) suffered considerable diminution, and grown so de- 
crepit and feeble with old age as to threaten demise altogether. 
The fact is, both girls had their own real affairs to think of : 
Rebecca her advance with her employers — Amelia her own 
absorbing topic. When the two girls met, and flew into each 
other's arms with that impetuosity which distinguishes the 
behavior of young ladies toward each other, Rebecca per- 
formed her part of the embrace with the most perfect brisk- 
ness and energy. Poor little Amelia blushed as she kissed her 
friend, and thought she had been guilty of something very 
like coldness toward her. 

Their first interview was but a very short one. Amelia was 
just ready to go out for a walk. Miss Craw^ley was waiting in 



MISS CRAWLEY AT HOME. 147 

her carriage below, her people wondering at the locality in 
which they found themselves, and gazing upon honest Sambo, 
the black footman of Bloomsbury, as one of the queer natives 
of the place. But when Amelia came down with her kind, 
smiling looks (Rebecca must introduce her to her friend. Miss 
Crawley was longing to see her, and was too ill to leave her 
carriage) — when, I say, Amelia came down, the Park Lane 
shoulder-knot aristocracy wondered more and more that such 
a thing could come out of Bloomsbury ; and Miss Crawley was 
fairly captivated by the sweet, blushing face of the young lady 
who came forward so timidly and so gracefully to pay her re- 
spects to the protector of her friend. 

" What a complexion, my dear ! What a sweet voice !" 
Miss Crawley said, as they drove away westward after the little 
interview. " My dear Sharp, your young friend is charming. 
Send for her to Park Lane, do you hear ?" Miss Crawley had 
a good taste. She liked natural manners — a little timidity only 
set them off. She liked pretty faces near her, as she liked 
pretty pictures and nice china. She talked of Amelia with 
rapture half a dozen times that day. She mentioned her to 
Rawdon Crawley, who came dutifully to partake of his aunt's 
chicken. 

Of course, on this Rebecca instantly stated that Amelia was 
engaged to be married — to a Lieutenant Osborne — a very old 
flame. 

" Is he a man in a line regiment ?" Captain Crawley asked, 
remembering, after an effort, as became a guardsman, the num- 
ber of the regiment, the — th. 

Rebecca thought that was the regiment. " The captain's 
name," she said, " was Captain Dobbin." 

" A lanky, gawky fellow," said Crawley, " tumbles over 
everybody. I know him ; and Osborne's a goodish-looking 
fellow, with large black whiskers ?" 

" Enormous," Miss Rebecca Sharp said, " and enormously 
proud of them, I assure you." 

Captain Rawdon Crawley burst into a horse-laugh by way 
of reply ; and being pressed by the ladies to explain, did so 
when the explosion of hilarity was over. " He fancies he can 
play at billiards," said he. " I won two hundred of him at 
the Cocoa Tree. He play, the young flat ! He'd have 
played for anything that day, but his friend Captain Dobbin 
carried him off, hang him !" 

*' Rawdon, Rawdon, don't be so wicked," Miss Crawley 
remarked, highly pleased. 

" Why, ma'am, of all the young fellows Pve seen out of 



148 VANITY FAIR. 

the line, T think this fellow's the greenest. Tarquin and 
Deuceace get what money they like out of him. He'd go to 
the deuce to be seen with a lord. He pays their dinners at 
Greenwich, and they invite the company." 

" And very pretty company, too, I dare say." 

" Quite right. Miss Sharp. Right, as usual, Miss Sharp. 
Uncommon pretty company — haw, haw !" and the captain 
laughed more and more, thinking he had made a good joke. 

" Rawdon, don't be naughty !" his aunt exclaimed. 

" Well, his father's a City man — immensely rich, they say. 
Hang those City fellows, they must bleed ; and I've not done 
with him yet, I can tell you. Haw, haw !" 

" Fie, Captain Crawley ; I shall warn Amelia. A gambling 
husband !" 

'' Horrid, a'n't he ?" the captain said with great solemnity ; 
and then added, a sudden thought having struck him : " Gad, 
I say, ma'am, we'll have him here." 

" Is he a presentable sort of a person ?" the aunt inquired. 

" Presentable 1 — oh, very well. You wouldn't see any dif- 
ference," Captain Crawley answered. " Do let's have him, 
when you begin to see a few people ; and his whatdyecallem 
— his inamorato — eh, Miss Sharp ; that's what you call it — 
comes. Gad, I'll write him a note, and have him ; and I'll 
try if he can play piquet as well as billiards. Where does he 
live. Miss Sharp ^" 

Miss Sharp told Crawley the lieutenant's town address ; and 
a few days after this conversation. Lieutenant Osborne re- 
ceived a letter, in Captam Rawdon's school-boy hand, and 
inclosing a note of invitation from Miss Crawley. 

Rebecca dispatched also an invitation to her darling Ame- 
lia, who, you may be sure, was ready enough to accept it 
when she heard that George was to be of the party. It was 
arranged that Amelia was to spend the morning with the ladies 
of Park Lane, where all were very kind to her. Rebecca pat- 
ronized her with calm superiority : she was so much the clev- 
erer of the two, and her friend so gentle and unassuming, that 
she always yielded when anybody chose to command, and so 
took Rebecca's orders with perfect meekness and good humor. 
Miss Crawley's graciousness was also remarkable. She contin- 
ued in raptures about little Amelia, talked about her before 
her face, as if she were a doll, or a servant, or a picture, and 
admired her with the most benevolent wonder possible. I ad- 
mire that admiration which the genteel world sometimes ex- 
tends to the commonalty. There is no more agreeable object 
in life than to see May Fair folks condescending. Miss Craw- 



MISS CRAWLEY AT HOME. 149 

ley's prodigious benevolence rather fatigued poor little Ame- 
lia, and I am not sure that of the three ladies in Park Lane, 
she did not find honest Miss Briggs the most agreeable. She 
sympathized with Briggs as with all neglected or gentle people 
— she wasn't what you call a woman of spirit. 

George came to dinner — a repast en gar^on with Captain 
Crawley. 

The great family coach of the Osbornes transported him to 
Park Lane from Russell Square, where the young ladies, who 
were not themselves invited, and professed the greatest indif- 
ference at that slight, nevertheless looked at Sir Pitt Crawley's 
name in the baronetage, and learned everything which that 
work had to teach about the Crawley family and their pedi- 
gree, and the Binkies^ their relatives, etc., etc. Rawdon Craw- 
ley received George Osborne with great frankness and gra- 
ciousness, praised his play at billiards, asked him when he 
would have his revenge, was interested about Osborne's regi- 
ment, and would have proposed piquet to him that very even- 
ing, but Miss Crawley absolutely forbade any gambling in 
her house ; so that the young lieutenant's purse was not 
lightened by his gallant patron, for that day at least. How- 
ever, they made an engagement for the next, somewhere, to 
look at a horse that Crawley had to sell, and to try him in 
the park, and to dine together, and to pass the evening with 
some jolly fellows. " That is, if you're not on duty to that 
pretty Miss Sedley," Crawley said, with a knowing wink. 
" Monstrous nice girl, 'pon my honor, though, Osborne," 
he was good enough to add. " Lots of tin, I suppose, eh ?" 

Osborne wasn't on duty, he would join Crawley with pleas- 
ure ; and the latter, when they met the next day, praised his 
new friend's horsemanship — as he might with perfect honesty 
— and introduced him to three or four young men of the first 
fashion, whose acquaintance immensely elated the simple 
young officer. 

'* How's little Miss Sharp, by the bye ?" Osborne inquired 
of his friend over their wine, with a dandified air. " Good- 
natured little girl that. Does she suit you well at Queen's 
Crawley ? Miss Sedley liked her a good deal last year." 

Captain Crawley looked savagely at the lieutenant out of 
his little blue eyes, and watched him when he went up to 
resume his acquaintance with the fair governess. Her con- 
duct must have relieved Crawley, if there was any jealousy in 
the bosom of that life-guardsman. 

When the young men went up-stairs, and after Osborne's 
introduction to Miss Crawley, he walked up to Rebecca with 



5° 



vajVIty fair. 



a patronizing, easy swagger. He was going to be kind to her 
and protect her. He would even shake hands with her, as 
a friend of Amelia's; and saying, "Ah, Miss Sharp, how- 
dy-doo ?" held out his left hand toward her, expecting that 
she would be quite confounded at the honor. 




Miss Sharp put out her right forefinger, and gave him a 
little nod, so cool and killing that Rawdon Crawley, watch- 
ing the operations from the other room, could hardly restrain 
his laughter as he saw the lieutenant's entire discomfiture, 
the start he gave, the pause, and the perfect clumsiness with 
which he at length condescended to take the finger which 
was offered for his embrace. 

" She'd beat the devil, by Jove !" the captain said, in a 
rapture ; and the lieutenant, by way of beginning the con- 



MISS CRAWLEY AT HOME. 151 

versation agreeably, asked Rebecca how she liked her new. 
place. 

"My place''" said Miss Sharp coolly ; " how kind of you 
to remind me of it I It's a tolerably good place — the wages 
are pretty good — not so good as Miss Wirt's, I believe, with 
your sisters in Russell Square. How are those young ladies ? 
— not that I ought to ask." 

" Why not ?" Mr. Osborne said, amazed. 
" Why, they never condescended to speak to me, or to ask 
me into their house, while I was staying with Amelia ; but we 
poor governesses, you know, are used to slights of this sort." 
"My dear Miss Sharp !" Osborne ejaculated, 
" At least in some families," Rebecca continued. " You 
can't think what a difference there is though. We are not sO' 
wealthy in Hampshire as you lucky folks of the City. But 
then I am in a gentleman's family — good old English stock. 
I suppose you know Sir Pitt's father refused a peerage. And 
you see how I am treated. I am pretty comfortable. Indeed, 
it is rather a good place. But how very good of you to in- 
quire !" 

Osborne was quite savage. The little governess patronized 
him and persiffled him until this young British Lion felt quite 
uneasy ; nor could he muster sufficient presence of mind to 
find a pretext for backing out of this most delectable conver- 
sation. 

"I thought you liked the City families pretty well," he said, 
haughtily, 

" Last year you mean, when I was fresh from that hor- 
rid, vulgar school ? Of course I did. Doesn't every girl like 
to come home for the holidays ? And how was I to know any 
better ? But oh, Mr, Osborne, what a difference eighteen 
months' experience makes ! — eighteen months spent, pardon 
me for saying so, with gentlemen. As for dear Amelia, she, 
I grant you, is a pearl, and would be charming anywhere. 
There now, I see you are beginning to be in a good humor ; 
but oh these queer, odd City people ! And Mr. Jos — how is 
that wonderful Mr, Joseph ?" 

" It seems to me you didn't dislike that wonderful Mr, Jo- 
seph last year," Osborne said kindly. 

" How severe of you ! Well, entire nous, I didn't break my 
heart about him ; yet if he had asked me to do what you mean 
by your looks (and very expressive and kind they are, too), 
I wouldn't have said no." 

Mr, Osborne gave a look as much as to say, " Indeed, how 
very obliging 



r ' 



152 VANITY FAIR. 

** What an honor to have had you for a brother-in-law, you 
are thinking ? To be sister-in-law to George Osborne, Es- 
quire, son of John Osborne, Esquire, son of — what was your 
grandpapa, Mr. Osborne ? Well, don't be angry. You can't 
help your pedigree, and I quite agree with you that I would 
have married Mr. Joe Sedley ; for could a poor, penniless girl 
do better ? Now you know the whole secret. Fm frank and 
open ; considering all things, it was very kind of you to allude 
to the circumstance — -very kind and polite. Amelia dear, Mr. 
Osborne and I were talking about your poor brother Joseph. 
How is he ?" 

Thus was George utterly routed. Not that Rebecca was in 
the right, but she had managed most successfully to put him 
in the wrong. And he now shamefully fled, feeling, if he 
stayed another minute, that he would have been made to look 
foolish in the presence of Amelia. 

Though Rebecca had had the better of him, George was 
above the meanness of tale-bearing or revenge upon a lady — 
only he could not help cleverly confiding to Captain Crawley, 
next day, some notions of his regarding Miss Rebecca — that 
she was a sharp one, a dangerous one, a desperate flirt, etc. ; 
in all of which opinions Crawley agreed laughingly, and 
with every one of which Miss Rebecca Was made acquainted 
before twenty-four hours were over. They added to her orig- 
inal regard for Mr. Osborne. Her woman's instincts had told 
her that it was George who had interrupted the success of 
her first love-passage, and she esteemed him accordingly. 

" I only just warn you," he said to Rawdon Crawley, with 
a knowing look — he had bought the horse, and lost some score 
of guineas after dinner — " I just warn you — I know women, 
and counsel you to be on the look-out." 

" Thank you, my boy," said Crawley, with a look of pecu- 
liar gratitude. "You're wide awake, I see." And George 
went off, thinking Crawley was quite right. 

He told Amelia of what he had done, and how he had coun- 
selled Rawdon Crawley — a devilish good, straightforward 
fellow — to be on his guard against that little sly, scheming 
Rebecca. 

" Against whom?'' Amelia cried. 

" Your friend the governess. Don't look so astonished." 

" Oh, George, what have you done ?" Amelia said. For her 
woman's eyes, which Love had made sharp-sighted, had in 
one instant discovered a secret which was invisible to Miss 
Crawley, to poor virgin Briggs, and, above all, to the stupid 
peepers of that young whiskered prig. Lieutenant Osborne. 



MISS CRAWLEY AT HOME. 153 

For as Rebecca was shawling her in an upper apartment, 
where these two friends had an opportunity for a little of 
that secret talking and conspiring which forms the delight of 
female life, Amelia, coming up to Rebecca, and taking her 
two little hands in hers, said, " Rebecca, I see it all." 

Rebecca kissed her. 

And regarding this delightful secret, not one syllable more 
was said by either of the young women. But it was destined 
to come out before long. 

Some short period after the above events, and Miss Rebecca 
Sharp still remaining at her patroness's house in Park Lane, 
one more hatchment might have been seen in Great Gaunt 
Street, figuring among the many which usually ornament 
that dismal quarter. It was over Sir Pitt Crawley's house ; 
but it did not indicate the worthy baronet's demise. It was a 
feminine hatchment, and indeed a few years back had served 
as a funeral compliment to Sir Pitt's old mother, the late 
dowager Lady Crawley. Its period of service over, the hatch- 
ment had come down from the front of the house, and lived 
in retirement somewhere in the back premises of Sir Pitt's man- 
sion. It reappeared now for poor Rose Dawson. Sir Pitt was 
a widower again. The arms quartered on the shield along with 
his own were not, to be sure, poor Rose's. She had no arms. 
But the cherubs painted on the scutcheon answered as well for 
her as for Sir Pitt's mother, and Resurgam was written under 
the coat, flanked by the Crawley Dove and Serpent. Arms 
and Hatchments, Resurgam. Here is an opportunity for 
moralizing ! 

Mr. Crawley had tended that otherwise friendless bedside. 
She went out of the world strengthened by such words and 
comfort as he could give her. For many years his was the 
only kindness she ever knew ; the only friendship that solaced 
in any way that feeble, lonely soul. Her heart was dead 
long before her body. She had sold it to become Sir Pitt 
Crawley's wife. Mothers and daughters are making the same 
bargain every day in Vanity Fair. 

When the demise took place, her husband was in London 
attending to some of his innumerable schemes, and busy with 
his endless lawyers. He had found time, nevertheless, to call 
often in Park Lane, and to dispatch many notes to Rebecca, 
entreating her, enjoining her, commanding her to return to 
her young pupils in the country, who were now utterly with- 
out companionshipr during their mother's illness. But Miss 
Crawley would not hear of her departure ; for though there 



154 VANITY FAIR. 

was no lady of fashion in London who would desert her friends 
more complacently as soon as she was tired of their society, 
and though few tired of them sooner, yet as long as her engou- 
ment lasted her attachment was prodigious, and she still clung 
with the greatest energy to Rebecca. 

The news of Lady Crawley's death provoked no more grief 
or comment than might have been expected in Miss Crawley's 
family circle. " I suppose I must put off my party for the 
3d," Miss Crawley said ; and added, after a pause, " I hope 
my brother will have the decency not to marry again. ' ' ' * What 
a confounded rage Pitt will be in if he does," Rawdon re- 
marked, with his usual regard for his elder brother. Rebecca 
said nothing. She seerned by far the gravest and most im- 
pressed of the family. She left the room before Rawdon went 
away that day ; but they met by chance below, as he was 
going away after taking leave, and had a parley together. 

On the morrow, as Rebecca was gazing from the window, 
she startled Miss Crawley, who was placidly occupied with 
a French novel, by crying out in an alarmed tone, " Here's 
Sir Pitt, ma'am !" and the baronet's knock followed this an- 
nouncement. 

" My dear, I can't see him. I won't see him. Tell Bowls 
not at home, or go down-stairs and say Pm too ill to receive 
any one. My nerves really won't bear my brother at this 
moment," cried out Miss Crawley, and resumed the novel. 

" She's too ill to see you, sir," Rebecca said, tripping down 
to Sir Pitt, who was preparing to ascend. 

" So much the better," Sir Pitt answered. " I want to see 
you^ Miss Becky. Come along a me into the parlor," and they 
entered that apartment together. 

" I wawnt you back at Queen's Crawley, miss," the bar- 
onet said, fixing his eyes upon her, and taking off his black 
gloves and his hat with its great crape hat-band. His eyes 
had such a strange look, and fixed upon her so steadfastly 
that Rebecca Sharp began almost to tremble. 

" I hope to come soon," she said in a low voice, " as soon 
as Miss Crawley is better — and return to — to the dear chil- 
dren." 

" You've said so these three months, Becky," replied Sir 
Pitt, " and still you go hanging on to my sister, who'll fliing 
you off like an old shoe when she's wore you out. I tell you 
I want yow. Pm going back to the vuneral. Will you come 
back ? Yes or no ?' ' 

" I daren't — I don't think — it would be right — to be alone 
— with you, sin" Becky said, seemingly in great agitation. 



MISS CRA WLE Y AT HOME. 



155 



" I say agin, I want you," Sir Pitt said, thumping the table. 
"' I can't git on without you. I didn't see what it was till you 
went away. The house all goes wrong. It's not the same 
place. All my accounts has got muddled agin. You must 
come back. Do come back. Dear Becky, do come." 

** Come — as what, sir ?" Rebecca gasped out. 

" Come as Lady Crawley, if you like," the baronet said, 
grasping his crape hat. " There ! will that zatisfy you ? Come 
back and be my wife. You vit vor't. Birth be hanged. You!re 
as good a lady as ever I see. You've got more brains in your 
little vinger.than any baronet's wife in the county. Will you 
come ? Yes or no ?" 

" Oh, Sir Pitt !" Rebecca said, very much moved. 



/ r/.. 







** Say yes, Becky," Sir Pitt continued. " I'm an old man, 
but a good'n. I'm good for twenty years. I'll make you 
happy, zee if I don't. You shall do what you like; spend 
what you like ; and 'av it all your own way. I'll make you a 
zettlement. I'll do everything reglar. Look year !" and the 
old maa fell down on his knees and leered at her like a satyr. 



15^ VANITY FAIR, 

Rebecca started back, a picture of consternation. In the 
course of this history we have never seen her lose her presence 
of mind ; but she did now, and wept some of the most genu- 
ine tears that ever fell from her eyes. 

" Oh, Sir Pitt !" she said. " Oh, sir — I — I'm married 
already, ' ' 



REBECCA' t> HVSBAND AFPEAR^. 



157 



:hapter XV, 



IN WHICH Rebecca's husband appears for. a short time. 




VERY reader of a sentimen- 
tal turn (and we desire no oth- 
er) must have been pleased 
with the tableau with which 
the last act of our little drama 
concluded ; for what can be 
prettier than an image of 
Love on his knees before 
Beauty? 

But when Love heard that 
awful confession from Beauty 
that she was married al- 
ready, he bounced up from his 
attitude of humility on the 
carpet, uttering exclamations 
which caused poor little Beauty to be more frightened than 
she was when she made her avowal. " Married ! you're 
joking," the baronet cried, after the first explosion of 
rage and wonder. " You're making vun of me, Becky. 
Who'd ever go to marry you without a shilling to your vor- 
tune ?" 

" Married ! married !" Rebecca said, in an agony of tears — 
her voice choking with emotion, her handkerchief up to her 
ready eyes, fainting against the mantelpiece — a figure of woe 
fit to melt the most obdurate heart. " Oh, Sir Pitt, dear Sir 
Pitt, do not think me ungrateful for all your goodness to me. 
It is only your generosity that has extorted my secret." 

" Generosity be hanged !" Sir Pittroared out. "Who is it 
tu, then, you're married ? Where was it ?" 

" Let me come back with you to the country, sir ! Let 
me watch over you as faithfully as ever 1 Don't, don't sepa- 
rate me from dear Queen's Crawley !" 

"The feller has left you, has he?" the baronet said, be- 
ginning, as he fancied, to comprehend. " Well, Becky, come 
back if you like. You can't eat your cake and have it. 



15^ VANITY FAIR. 

Anyways, I made you a vair offer. Coom back as governess 
— you shall have it all your own way." She held out one 
hand. She cried fit to break her heart ; her ringlets fell over 
her face, and over the marble mantelpiece where she laid it. 

" So the rascal ran off, eh ^" Sir Pitt said, with a hideous 
attempt at consolation. '' Nevermind, Becky, F II take care of 
'ee." 

" Oh, sir ! it would be the pride of my life to go back tc 
Queen's Crawley, and take care of the children and of you 
as formerly, when you said you were pleased with the services 
of your little Rebecca. When I think of what you have 
just offered me, my heart fills with gratitude — indeed it does. 
I can't be your wife, sir ; let me — let me be your daugh- 
ter 1" . 

Saying which, Rebecca went down on /z^r knees in a most 
tragical way, and, taking Sir Pitt's horny, black hand be- 
tween her own two (which were very pretty and white, and 
as soft as satin), looked up in his face with an expression of 
exquisite pathos and confidence, when — when the door opened, 
and Miss Crawley sailed in. 

Mrs. Firkin and Miss Briggs, who happened by chance 
to be at the parlor-door soon after the baronet and Rebecca 
entered the apartment, had also seen accidentally, through 
the key-hole, the old gentleman prostrate before the govern- 
ess, and had heard the generous proposal which he made to 
her. It was scarcely out of his mouth when Mrs. Firkin and 
Miss Briggs had streamed up the stairs, had rushed into the 
drawing-room where Miss Crawley was reading the French 
novel, and had given that old lady the astounding intelligence 
that Sir Pitt was on his knees, proposing to Miss Sharp. And 
if you calculate the time for the above dialogue to take place 
— the time for Briggs and Firkin to fly to the drawing-room 
— the time for Miss Crawley to be astonished, and to drop 
her volume of " Pigault le Brun" — and the time for her to 
come down-stairs — you will see how exactly accurate this his- 
tory is, and how Miss Crawley must have appeared at the ve^y 
instant when Rebecca had assumed the attitude of humility. 
" It is the lady on the ground, and not the gentleman." 
■Miss Crawley said, with a look and voice of great scorn 
*' They told me X\\2Xyou were on your knees. Sir Pitt ; do kneel 
once more, and let me see this pretty couple." 

"I have thanked Sir Pitt Crawley, ma'am," Rebecca said, 
rising, "and have told him that— that I never can become 
Lady Crawley." 

'* Refused him I" Miss Crawley said, more bewildered than 



REBECCA'S HUSBAND APPEARS. 



159 



ever. Briggs and Firkin at the door opened the eyes of 
astonishment and the lips of wonder. 

" Yes — refused," Rebecca continued, with a sad, tearful 
voice. 




*' And am I to credit my ears that you absolutely proposed 
to her, Sir Pitt ?" the old lady asked. 

" Ees," said the baronet, "I did." 

" And she refused you, as she says ?" 

" Ees," Sir Pitt said, his features on a broad grin. 

" It does not seem to break your heart at any rate," Miss 
Crawley remarked. 

" Nawt a bit," answered Sir Pitt, with a coolness and good- 
humor which set Miss Crawley almost mad with bewilder- 
ment. That an old gentleman of station should fall on his 
knees to a penniless governess, and burst out laughing be 
cause she refused to marry him — that a penniless governess 
should refuse a baronet with four thousand a year — these 



l6o VANITY FAIR. 

were mysteries which Miss Crawley could never comprehend. 
It surpassed any complications of intrigue in her favorite 
" Pigault le Brun." 

" I'm glad you think it good sport, brother," she con- 
tinued, groping wildly through this amazement. 

" Vamous," said Sir Pitt. " Who'd ha' thought it ! what 
a sly little devil ! what a little fox it waws !" he muttered to 
himself, chuckling with pleasure. 

" Who'd have thought what ?" cried Miss Crawley, stamp- 
ing with her foot. " Pray, Miss Sharp, are you waiting for the 
Prince Regent's divorce, that you don't think our family good 
enough for you ?" 

" My attitude," Rebecca said, " when you came in, ma'am, 
did not look as if I despised such an honor as this good— this 
noble man has deigned to offer me. Do you think I have no 
heart ? Have you all loved me, and been so kind to the poor 
orphan — deserted — girl, and am / to feel nothing ? O my 
friends ! O my benefactors ! may not my love, my life, 'my- 
duty, try to repay the confidence you have shown me ? Do 
you grudge me even gratitude. Miss Crawley ? It is too much 
— my heart is too full." And she sank down in a chair so 
pathetically, that most of the audience present were perfectly 
melted with her sadness. 

" Whether you marry me or not, you're a good little 
girl, Becky, and I'm your vriend, mind," said Sir Pitt, and 
putting on his crape-bound hat, he walked away — greatly 
to Rebecca's relief ; for it was evident that her secret was 
unrevealed to Miss Crawley, and she had the advantage of a 
brief reprieve. 

Putting her handkerchief to her eyes, and nodding away 
honest Briggs, who would have followed her up-stairs, she 
went up to her apartment ; while Briggs and Miss Craw- 
ley, in a high state of excitement, remained to discuss the 
strange event, and Firkin, not less moved, dived down into the 
kitchen regions, and talked of it with all the male and female 
company there. And so impressed was Mrs. Firkin with the 
news that she thought proper to write off by that very night's 
post, " with her humble duty to Mrs. Bute Crawley and the 
family at the Rectory, and Sir Pitt had been and proposed for 
to marry Miss Sharp, wherein she has refused him, to the 
wonder of all." 

The two ladies in the dining-room (where worthy Miss 
Briggs was delighted to be admitted once more to a confi- 
dential conversation with her patroness) wondered to their 
hearts' content at Sir Pitt's offer and Rebecca's refusal^ 



REBECCA'S HUSBAND APPEARS. i6i 

Briggs very acutely suggesting that there must have been 
some obstacle in the shape of a previous attachment, other- 
wise no young woman in her senses would ever have refused 
so advantageous a proposal. 

" You would have accepted it yourself, wouldn't you, 
Briggs ?" Miss Crawley said, kindly. 

" Would it not be a privilege to be Miss Crawley's sister?" 
Briggs replied, with meek evasion. 

" Well, Becky would have made a good Lady Crawley, 
after all," Miss Crawley remarked (who was mollified by the 
girl's refusal, and very liberal and generous, now there was 
no call for her sacrifices). " She has brains in plenty (much 
more wit in her little finger than you have, my poor dear 
Briggs, in all your head). Her manners are excellent, now 
1 have formed her. She is a Montmorency, Briggs, and blood 
is something, though I despise it for my part ; and she would 
have held her own among those pompous, stupid Hampshire 
people much better than that unfortunate ironmonger's 
daughter." 

Briggs coincided as usual, and the " previous attachment " 
was then discussed in conjectures. " You poor friendless 
creatures are always having some foolish tendre^'' Miss Craw- 
ley said. " You yourself, you know, were in love with a 
writing-master (don't cry, Briggs — you're always crying, and 
it won't bring him to life again), and I suppose this unfortu- 
nate Becky has been silly and sentimental, too — some apothe- 
cary, or house-steward, or painter, or young curate, or some- 
thing of that sort." 

** Poor thing, poor thing !" says Briggs (who was think- 
ing of twenty-four years back, and that hectic young writing- 
master whose lock of yellow hair and whose letters, beautiful 
in their illegibility, she cherished in her old desk up-stairs). 
*' Poor thing, poor thing !" says Briggs. Once more she was 
a fresh-cheeked lass of eighteen ; she was at evening church, 
and the hectic writing-master and she were quavering out of 
the same psalm-book. 

"After such conduct on Rebecca's part," Miss Crawley 
said enthusiastically, "our family should do something. 
Find out who is the objet^ Briggs. PU set him up in a shop ; 
or order my portrait of him, you know ; or speak to my cousin, 
the Bishop — and Pll doter Becky, and we'll have a wedding, 
Bi'iggs, and you shall make the breakfast, and be a brides- 
maid." 

Briggs declared that it would be delightful, and vowed that 
her dear Miss Crawley was always kind and generous, and 



i62 VANITY FAIR, 

went up to Rebecca's bedroom to console her and prattle 
about the offer, and the refusal, and the cause thereof : and 
to hint at the generous intentions of Miss Crawley, and to 
find out who was the gentleman that had the mastery of Miss 
Sharp s heart- 
Rebecca was very kind, very affectionate and affected — re- 
sponded to Briggs's offer of tenderness with grateful fervor — 
owned there was a secret attachment — a delicious mystery — 
what a pity Miss Briggs had not remained half a minute longer 
at the keyhole ! Rebecca might, perhaps, have told more. 
But five minutes after Miss Briggs's arrival in Rebecca's apart- 
ment, Miss Crawley actually made her appearance there — an 
unheard-of honor; her impatience had overcome her; she 
could not wait for the tardy operations of her ambassadress, 
so she came in person, and ordered Briggs out of the room. 
And expressing her approval of Rebecca's conduct, she asked 
particulars of the interview, and the previous transactions 
which had brought about the astonishing offer of Sir Pitt. 

Rebecca said she had long had some notion of the partiality 
with which Sir Pitt honored her (for he was in the habit of 
making his feelings known in a very liaiik and unreserved 
manner), but, not to mention private reasons with which she 
would not for the present trouble Miss Crawley, Sir Pitt's 
age, station, and habits were such as to render a marriage 
quite impossible ; and could a woman with any feeling of self- 
respect and any decency listen to proposals at such a moment, 
when the funeral of the lover's deceased wife had not actu- 
ally taken place ? 

" Nonsense, my dear, you would never have refused him 
had there not been some one else in the case," Miss Crawley 
said, coming to her point at once. " Tell me the private 
reasons — what are the private reasons ? There is some one ; 
who is it that has touched your heart ?" 

Rebecca cast down her eyes, and owned there was. " You 
have guessed right, dear lady," she said, with a sweet, simple, 
faltering voice. " You wonder at one so poor and friendless 
having an attachment, don't you ? I have never heard that 
poverty was any safeguard against it. I wish it were." 

" My poor, dear child," cried Miss Crawley, who was al- 
ways quite ready to be sentimental, ** is our passion unre- 
quited then? Are we pining in secret? Tell me all, and let 
me console you." 

"I wish you could, dear madam," Rebecca said in the 
same tearful tone. " Indeed, indeed, I need it." And she 
laid her head upon Miss Crawley's shoulder and wept there 



REBECCA'S HUSBAND APPEARS. 163 

SO naturally that the old lady, surprised into sympathy, em- 
braced her with an almost maternal kindness, uttered many 
soothing protests of regard and affection for her, vowed that 
she loved her as a daughter, and would do everything in her 
power to serve her. " And now who is it, my dear ? Is it 
that pretty Miss Sedley's brother ? You said something about 
an affair with him. I'll ask him here, my dear. And you 
shall have him — indeed you shall." 

"Don't ask me now," Rebecca said. "You shall know 
all soon. Indeed you shall. Dear, kind Miss Crawley — dear 
friend — may I say so ?" 

" That 3^ou may, my child," the old lady replied, kissing 
her. 

" I can't tell you now," sobbed out Rebecca, " I am very 
miserable. But oh, love me always — promise you will love 
me always." And in the midst of mutual tears — for the emo- 
tions of the younger woman had awakened the sympathies of 
the elder — this promise was solemnly given by Miss Crawley, 
who left her little protegee^ blessing and admiring her as a 
dear, artless, tender-hearted, affectionate, incomprehensible 
creature. 

And now she was left alone to think over the sudden and 
wonderful events of the day, and of what had been and what 
might have been. What think you were the private feelings 
of Miss, no (begging her pardon), of Mrs. Rebecca ? If, a few 
pages back, the present writer claimed the privilege of peeping 
into Miss Amelia Sedley's bedroom, and understanding with 
the omniscience of the novelist all the gentle pains and passione 
which were tossing upon that innocent pillow, why should hs 
not declare himself to be Rebecca's confidant too, master of 
her secrets, and seal-keeper of that young woman's con- 
science ? 

Well, then, in the first place, Rebecca gave way to some 
very sincere and touching regrets that a piece of marvellous 
good fortune should have been so near her, and she actually 
obliged to decline it. In this natural emotion every properly- 
regulated mind will certainh^ share. What good mother is 
there that would not commiserate a penniless spinster, who 
might have been my lady and have shared four thousand a 
year ? What well-bred young person is there in all Vanity 
Fair who will not feel for a hard-working, ingenuous, meri- 
torious girl, who gets such an honorable, advantageous, pro- 
voking offer just at the very moment when it is out of her 
power to accept it? I am sure our friend Becky's disappoint- 
ment deserves and will command every sympathy. 



164. VANITY FAIR. 

I remember one night being in the Fair myself, at an 
evening party. I observed old Miss Toady, there also 
present, single out for her special attentions and flattery lit- 
tle Mrs. Briefless, the 'barrister's wife, who is of a good 
family certainly, but, as we all know, is as poor as poor 
can be. 

What, I asked in my own mind, can cause this obsequious- 
ness on the part of Miss Toady ; has Briefless got a county 
court, or has his wife had a fortune left her ? Miss Toady 
explained presently, with that simplicity which distinguishes 
all her conduct. " You know," she said, " Mrs. Briefless is 
granddaughter of Sir John Redhand, who is so ill at Chelten- 
ham that he can't last six months. Mrs. Briefless's papa suc- 
ceeds ; so you see she ivillh^ a baronet's daughter." And 
Toady asked Briefless and his wife to dinner the very next 
week. 

If the mere chance of becoming a baronet's daughter can 
procure a lady such homage in the world, surely, surely we 
may respect the agonies of a young woman who has lost the 
opportunity of becoming a baronet's wife. Who would have 
dreamed of Lady Crawley dying so soon ? She was one of 
those sickly women that might have lasted these ten years — 
Rebecca thought to herself, in all the woes of repentance — 
and I might have been my lady ! I might have led that old 
man whither I would. I might have thanked Mrs. Bute for 
her patronage, and Mr. Pitt for his insufferable condescension. 
I would have had the town-house newly furnished and deco- 
rated. I would have had the handsomest carriage in London, 
and a box at the opera ; and I would have been presented 
next season. All this 7night have been ; and now — now all 
was doubt and mystery. 

But Rebecca was a young lady of too much resolution and 
energy of character to permit herself much useless and un- 
seemly sorrow for the irrevocable past ; so, having devoted 
only the proper portion of regret to it, she wisely turned her 
whole attention toward the future, which was now vastly 
more important to her. And she surveyed her position, and 
its hopes, doubts, and chances. 

In the first place, she was married ; that was a great fact. 
Sir Pitt knew it. She was not so much surprised into the 
avowal, as induced to make it by a sudden calculation. It 
must have come some day, and why not now as at a later 
period ? He who would have married her himself must at 
least be silent with regard to her marriage. How Miss 
Crawley would bear the news was the great question. Mis- 



REBECCA' S HUSBAND APPEARS. 165 

givings Rebecca had ; but she remembered all Miss Crawley 
had said ; the old lady's avowed contempt for birth ; her 
daring liberal opinions ; her general romantic propensities ; 
her almost doting attachment to her nephew, and her re- 
peatedly-expressed fondness for Rebecca herself. She is so 
fond of him, Rebecca thought, that she will forgive him any- 
thing ; she is so used to me that I don't think she could be 
comfortable without me ; when the edaircissement comes there 
will be a scene, and hysterics, and a great quarrel, and then a 
great reconciliation. At all events, what use was there 
in delaying ? the die was thrown, and now or to-morrow 
the issue must be the same. And so, resolved that Miss Craw- 
ley should have the news, the young person debated in her 
mind as to the best means of conveying it to her ; and 
whether she should face the storm that must come, or fly and 
avoid it until its first fury was blown over. In this state of 
meditation she wrote the following letter : 

^' Dearest Friend : 

" The great crisis which we have debated about so oix.t.n\s,come. Half of 
my secret is known, and I have thought and thought, until I am quite sure 
that now is the time to reveal the whole of the mystery. Sir Pitt came to me 
this morning, and made — what do you think ? — a declaration in form. Think 
•of that ! Poor little me. I might have been Lady Crawley. How pleased 
Mrs. Bute would have been, and ma tante, if I had taken precedence of her ! 
I might have been somebody's mamma, instead of — oh, I tremble, I 
tremble when I think how soon we must tell all ! 

" Sir Pitt knows I am married, and not knowing to whom, is not very 
much displeased as yet. Ma tante is actually angry that I should have re- 
fused him. But she is all kindness and graciousness. She condescends to 
say I would have made him a good wife, and vows that she will be a mother 
to your little Rebecca. She will be shaken when she first hears the news. 
But need we fear anything beyond a momentary anger ? I think not : 
I a}?i sure not. She dotes upon you so (you naughty, good-for-nothing 
man), that she would pardon you anything, and, indeed, I believe, the next 
place in her heart is mine, and that she would be miserable without me. 
Dearest ! something tells me we shall conquer. You shall leave that 
odious regiment, quit gaming, racing, and be a good boy ; and we shall all 
live in Park Lane, and ma tante shall leave us all her money. 

" I shall try and walk to-morrow at 3 in the usual place. If Miss B. ac- 
companies me, you must come to dinner, and bring an answer, and put it in 
the third volume of Porteus's Sermons. But, at all events, come to your 
own R. 

" To Miss Eliza Styles, 

" Ac Mr. Barnet's, Saddler, Knightsbridge." 

And I trust there is no reader of this little story who has 
"iot discernment enough to perceive that the Miss Eliza 



66 



VANITY FAIR. 



Styles (an old schoolfellow, Rebecca said, with whom she 
had resumed an active correspondence of late, and who used 
to fetch these letters from the saddler's), wore brass spurs 
and large curling moustachios, and was indeed no other than 
Captain Rawdon Crawley. 



llti pi 




THE LETTER ON THE PINCUSHION. 



i67- 



CHAPTER XVI. 

THE LETTER ON THE PINCUSHION. 



OW they were married is not 
of the slightest consequence 
to anybody. What is to hin- 
der a captain who is a major 
and a young lady who is of 
age from purchasing a li- 
cense, and uniting them- 
selves at any church in this 
town ? Who needs to be 
told, that if a woman has a 
will she will assuredly find a 
way ? My belief is, that one 
day, when Miss Sharp had 
gone to pass the forenoon 
with her dear friend Miss 
Amelia Sedley, in Russell 
Square, a lady very like her 
might have been seen enter- 
ing a church in the City, in 
company with a gentleman 
with dyed moustachios, who, 
after a quarter of an hour's interval, escorted her back to the 
hackney-coach in waiting, and that this was a quiet bridal 
party. 

And who on earth, after the daily experience we have, can 
question the probability of a gentleman marrying anybody ? 
How many of the wise and learned have married their cooks ? 
Did not Lord Eldon himself, the most prudent of men, make 
a runaway match ? Were not Achilles and Ajax both in 
love with their servant-maids ? And are we to expect a heavy 
dragoon with strong desires and small brains, who had never 
controlled a passion in his life, to become prudent all of a 
sudden, and to refuse to pay any price for an indulgence to 
which he had a mind ? If people only made prudent mar- 
riages, what a stop to population there would be ! 




1 68 VANITY FAIR. 

It heems to me, for my part, that Mr. Rawdon's marriage 
was one of the honestest actions which we shall have to record 
in any portion of that gentleman's biography which has to do 
with the present history. No one will say it is unmanly to be 
captivated by a woman, or, being captivated, to marry her ; 
and the admiration, the delight, the passion, the wonder, the 
unbounded confidence, and frantic adoration with which, by 
degrees, this great warrior got to regard the little Rebecca, 
were feelings which the ladies at least will pronounce not 
altogether discreditable to him. When she sang, every note 
thrilled in his dull soul, and tingled through his huge frame. 
When she spoke, he brought all, the force of his brains to lis- 
ten and wonder. If she was jocular, he used to revolve her 
jokes in his mind, and explode over them half an hour after- 
ward in the street, to the surprise of the groom in the tilbury 
by his side, or the comrade riding with him in Rotten Row. 
Her words were oracles to him, her smallest actions marked 
by an infallible grace and wisdom. " How she sings — how 
she paints !" thought he. " How she rode that kicking mare 
at Queen's Crawley !" And he would say to her in con- 
fidential moments, " By Jove, Beck, you're fit to be com- 
mander-in-chief, or Archbishop of Canterbury, by Jove !" Is 
his case a rare one ? and don't we see every day in the world 
many an honest Hercules at the apron-strings of Omphale, and 
great whiskered Samsons prostrate in Delilah's lap ? 

When, then, Becky told him that the great crisis was near, 
and the time for action had arrived, Rawdon expressed him- 
self as ready to act under her orders as he would be to charge 
w^th his troop at the command of his colonel. There was no 
need for him to put his letter into the third volume of Por- 
teus. Rebecca easily found a means to get rid of Briggs, 
her companion, and met her faithful friend in " the usual 
place" on the next day. She had thought over matters at 
night, and communicated to Rawdon the result of her deter- 
minations. He agreed, of course, to everything ; was quite 
sure that it was all right, that what she proposed was best, 
that Miss Crawley would infallibly relent, or " come round," 
as he said, after a time. Had Rebecca's resolutions been 
entirely different, he would have followed them as implicitly. 
"You have head enough for both of us. Beck," said he. 
" You're sure to get us out of the scrape. I never saw your 
equal, and I've met with some clippers in my time, too." And 
with this simple confession of faith, the love-stricken dragoon 
left her to execute his part of the project which she had 
formed for the pair. 



THE LETTER ON THE PINCUSHION. 169 

It consisted simply in the hiring of quiet lodgings at Bromp- 
ton, or in the neighborhood of the barracks, for Captain and 
Mrs. Crawley. For Rebecca had determined, and very pru- 
dently, we think, to fly. Rawdon was only too happy at her 
resolve ; he had been entreating her to take this measure any 
time for weeks past. He pranced off to engage the lodgings 
with all the impetuosity of love. He agreed to pay two guin- 
eas a week so readily, that the landlady regretted she had 
asked him so little. He ordered in a piano and half a nur- 
sery-house full of flowers ; and a heap of good things. As 
for shawls, kid gloves, silk stockings, gold French watches, 
bracelets, and perfumery, he sent them in with the profusion 
of blind love and unbounded credit. And having relieved 
his mind by this outpouring of generosity, he went and dined 
nervously at the club, waiting until the great moment, of his 
life should come. 

The occurrences of the previous day — the admirable con- 
duct of Rebecca in refusing an offer so advantageous to her, 
the secret unhappiness preying upon her, the sweetness and 
silence with which she bore her affliction — made Miss Craw- 
ley much more tender than usual. An event of this nature, 
a marriage, or a refusal, or a proposal, thrills through a 
whole household of women, and sets all their hysterical sym- 
pathies at work. As an observer of human nature, I regu- 
larly frequent St. George's, Hanover Square, during the 
genteel marriage season ; and though I have never seen the 
bridegroom's male friends give way to tears, or the beadles 
and officiating clergy any way affected, yet it is not at all 
uncommon to see women who are not in the least concerned 
in the operations going on — old ladies who are long past 
marrying, stout middle-aged females with plenty of sons and 
daughters, let alone pretty young creatures in pink bonnets, . 
who are on their promotion, and may naturally take an in- 
terest in the ceremony — I say it is quite common to see the 
women present piping, sobbing, sniffling, hiding their little 
faces in their little useless pocket-handkerchiefs, and heav- 
ing, old and young, with emotion. When my friend, the 
fashionable John Pimlico, married the lovely Lady Belgravia 
Green Parker, the excitement was so general that even the 
little snuffy old pew-opener who let me into the seat was in 
tears. And wherefore ? I inquired of my own soul : she was 
not going to be married. 

Miss Crawley and Briggs, in a w^ord, after the affair of Sir 
Pitt, indulged in the utmost luxury of sentiment, and Rebec- 



;i70 VANITY FAIR. 

ca became an object of the most tender interest to them. In 
her absence Miss Crawley solaced herself with the most senti- 
mental of the novels in her library. Little Sharp, with her 
secret griefs, was the heroine of the day. 

That night Rebecca sang more sweetly and talked more 
pleasantly than she had ever been heard to do in Park Lane. 
She twined herself round the heart of Miss Crawley. She 
spoke lightly and laughingly of Sir Pitt's proposal, ridiculed 
it as the foolish fancy of an old man ; and her eyes filled with 
tears, and Briggs's heart with unutterable pangs of defeat, as 
she said she desired no other lot than to remain forever with 
her dear benefactress. " Mydearlittle creature," theold lady 
said, " I don't intend to let you stir for years, that you may 
depend upon. As for going back to that odious brother of 
mine after what has passed, it is out of the question. Here 
you stay with me and Briggs. Briggs wants to go to see 
her relations very often. Briggs, you may go when you like. 
/But as for you, my dear, you must stay and take care of the 
old woman." 

If Rawdon Crawley had been then and there present, in- 
stead of being at the club, nervously drinking claret, the pair 
might have gone down on their knees before the old spinster, 
avowed all, and been forgiven in a twinkling. But that good 
chance was denied to the young couple, doubtless in order 
that this story might be written, in which numbers of their 
w^onderful adventures are narrated — adventures which could 
never have occurred to them if they had been housed and 
sheltered under the comfortable, uninteresting forgiveness of 
Miss Crawley. 

Under Mrs. Firkin's orders, in the Park Lane establish- 
ment, was a young woman from Hampshire, whose business 
it was, among other duties, to knock at Miss Sharp's door 
with that jug of hot water which Firkin would rather have 
perished than have presented to the intruder. This girl, bred 
on the family estate, had a brother in Captain Crawley's 
troop, and if the truth were known, I dare say it would come 
out that she was aware of certain arrangements which have 
a great deal to do with this history. At any rate she pur- 
chased a yellow shawl, a pair of green boots, and a light 
blue hat with a red feather with three guineas which Rebecca 
gave her, and as little Sharp was by no means too liberal with 
her money, no doubt it was for services rendered that Betty 
.Martin was so bribed. 

On the second dav after Sir Pitt Crawlev's offer to Miss 




The Note on the Pincushion. 



THE LETTER ON THE PINCUSHION. 171 

Sharp, the sun rose as usual, and at the usual hour Betty Mar- 
tin, theup-stairs maid, knocked at the door of the governess's 
bed-chamber. 

No answer was returned, and she knocked again. Silence 
was still uninterrupted ; and Betty, with the hot water, opened 
the door and entered the chamber. 

The little white dimity bed was as smooth and trim as on 
the day previous, when Betty's own hands had helped to 
make it. Two little trunks were corded in one end of the 
room ; and on the table before the window — on the pin- 
cushion — the great fat pincushion lined with pink inside, and 
twilled like a lady's nightcap — lay a letter. It had been re- 
posing there probably all night. 

Betty advanced toward it on tiptoe, as if she were afraid to 
awake it — looked at it, and round the room, with an air of 
great wonder and satisfaction ; took up the letter, and 
grinned intensely as she turned it round and over, and finally 
carried it into Miss Briggs's room below. 

How could Betty tell that the letter was for Miss Briggs, I 
should like to know ? All the schooling Betty had was at 
Mrs. Bute Crawley's Sunday-school, and she could no more 
read writing than Hebrew. 

" La, Miss Briggs," the girl exclaimed, " oh, miss, some- 
thing must have happened — there's nobody in Miss Sharp's 
room ; the bed a'n't been slep' in, and she've run away, and 
left this letter for you, miss." 

'* What!'' cries Briggs, dropping her comb, the thin wisp 
of faded hair falling over her shoulders; "an elopement! 
Miss Sharp a fugitive ! What, what is this?" and she eagerly 
broke the neat seal, and, as they say, " devoured the con- 
tents" of the letter addressed to her. 

" Dear Miss Briggs," the refugee wrote, "the kindest heart in the 
world, as yours is, will pity and sympathize with me and excuse me. With 
tears, and prayers, and blessings, I leave the home where the poor orphan 
has ever met with kindness and affection. Claims even superior to those of 
my benefactress call me hence. I go to my duty — to my husband. Yes, I 
am married. My husband conunands me to seek the humble home which we 
call ours. Dearest Miss Briggs, break the news as your delicate sympathy 
will know how to do it, to my de^r, my beloved friend and benefactress. Tell 
her, ere I went, I shed tears oh her dear pillow — that pillow that I have so 
often soothed in sickness — that I long again to watch— oh, with what joy 
shall I return to dear Park Lane ! How I tremble for the answer which is 
to seal my fate ! When Sir Pitt deigned to offer me his hand, an honor of 
which my beloved Miss Crawley said I was deserving (my blessings go with 
her for judging the poor orphan worthy to be her sister !) I told Sir Pitt that 
I was already a tvife. Even he forgave me. But my courage failed me, 
when I should have told him all — that I could not be his wife, for I was 



172 VANITY FAIR, 

Jiis daughter ! I am wedded to the best and most generous of men — Miss 
Crawley's Rawdon is my Rawdon. At his co?7iniand I open my lips, and fol- 
low him to our humble home, as I would through the world Oh, my excel- 
lent and kind friend, intercede with my Rawdon's beloved aunt for him 
and the poor girl to whom all his noble race have shown such unparalleled 
affection. Ask Miss Crawley to receive her children. I can say no more, but 
blessings, blessings on all in the dear house I leave, prays 

" Your affectionate 2LX\d grate Jul 
" Midnight." " Rebecca Crav^ley." 

Just as Briggs had finished reading this affecting and in- 
teresting document, which reinstated her in her position as 
first confidante of Miss Crawley, Mrs. Firkin entered the 
room. " Here's Mrs. Bute Crawley just arrived by the mail 
from Hampshire, and wants some tea ; will you come down 
and make breakfast, miss ?" 

And to the surprise of Firkin, clasping her dressing-gown 
around her, the wisp of hair floating dishevelled behind her, 
the little curl-papers still sticking in bunches round her fore- 
head, Briggs sailed down to Mrs. Bute with the letter in her 
hand containing the wonderful news. 

*' Oh, Mrs. Firkin," gasped Betty, " sech a business. Miss 
Sharp have a gone and run away with the Capting, and they're 
off to Gretney Green !" We would devote a chapter to de- 
scribe the emotions of Mrs. Firkin, did not the passions of her 
mistresses occupy our genteeler muse. 

When Mrs. Bute Crawley, numbed with midnight travel- 
ling, and warming herself at the newly crackling parlor fire, 
heard from Miss Briggs the intelligence of the clandestine 
marriage, she declared it was quite providential that she- 
should have arrived at such a time to assist poor dear Miss 
Crawley in supporting the shock — that Rebecca was an art- 
ful little hussy, of whom she had always had her suspicions ; 
and that as for Rawdon Crawley, she never could account for 
his aunt's infatuation regarding him, and had long considered 
him a profligate, lost, and abandoned being. And this awful 
conduct, Mrs. Bute said, will have at least this good effect, 
it will open poor dear Miss Crawley's eyes to the real char- 
acter of this wicked man. Then Mrs. Bute had a comfort- 
able hot toast and tea ; and as there was a vacant roomjn the 
house now, there was no need for her to remain at the Gloster 
Coffee House, where the Portsmouth mail had set her down, 
and whence she ordered Mr. Bowls's aide-de-camp the foot- 
man to bring away her trunks. 

Miss Crawley, be it known, did not leave her room until 



THE LETTER ON THE PINCUSHION. 1 73 

near noon— taking chocolate in bed in the morning, while 
Becky Sharp read the Morning Post to her, or otherwise amus- 
ing herself or dawdling. The conspirators below agreed 
that they would spare the dear lady's feelings until she 
appeared in her drawing-room ; meanwhile it was announced 
to her that Mrs. Bute Crawley had come up from Hamp- 
shire by the mail, was staying at the Gloster, sent her love to 
Miss Crawley, and asked for breajcfast with Miss Briggs. The 
arrival of Mrs. Bute, which would not have caused any ex- 
treme delight at another period, was hailed with pleasure now 
Miss Crawley being pleased at the notion of a gossip with 
her sister-in-law regarding the late Lady Crawley, the fune- 
ral arrangements pending, and Sir Pitt's abrupt proposals to 
Rebecca. 

It was not until the old lady was fairly ensconced in her 
usual arm-chair in the drawing-room, and the preliminary 
embraces and inquiries had taken place between the ladies, 
that the conspirators thought it advisable to submit her to 
the operation. Who has not admired the artifices and deli- 
cate approaches with which women " prepare" their friends 
for bad news ? Miss Crawley's two friends made such an 
apparatus of mystery before they broke the intelligence to her, 
that they worked her up to the necessary degree of doubt and 
alarm. 

" And she refused Sir Pitt, my dear, dear Miss Crawley, 
prepare yourself for it," Mrs. Bute said, "because — because 
she couldn't help herself." 

** Of course there was a reason," Miss Crawley answered. 
" She liked somebody else. I told Briggs so yesterday." 

''Likes somebody else!" Briggs gasped. " Oh, my dear 
friend, she is married already." 

" Married already," Mrs. Bute chimed in ; and both sat with 
clasped hands looking from each other at their victim. 

" Send her to me, the instant she comes in. The little sly 
wretch — how dared she not tell me?" cried out Miss Craw- 
ley. 

" She won't come in soon. Prepare yourself, dear friend 
— she's gone out for a long time — she's — she's gone alto- 
gether." 

"Gracious goodness, and who's to make my chocolate? 
Send for her and have her back ; I desire that she come 
back," the old lady said. 

" She decamped last night, ma'am," cried Mrs. Bute. 

" She left a letter for me," Briggs exclaimed. " She's mar- 
ried to — " 



174 VANITY FAIR. 

** Prepare her, for Heaven's sake. Don't torture her, my 
dear Miss Briggs." 

" She's married to whom ?" cries the spinster in a nervous 
fury. 

*' To — to a relation of — " 

" She refused Sir Pitt," cried the victim. " Speak at once. 
Don't drive me mad." 

" Oh, ma'am — prepare her, Miss Briggs — she's married to 
Rawdon Crawley." 

" Rawdon married — Rebecca — governess — nobod — Get out 
of my house, you fool, you idiot — you stupid old Briggs — how 
dare you ? You're in the plot — you made him marry, think- 
ing that I'd leave my money from him — you did, M-vitha," 
the poor old lady screamed in hysteric sentences. 

' I, ma'am, ask a member of this family to marry a draw- 
ing-master's daughter?" 

" Her mother was a Montmorency," cried out the old lady, 
pulling at the bell with all her might. 

" Her mother was an opera-girl, and she has been on the 
stage or worse herself," said Mrs. Bute. 

Miss Crawley gave a final scream, and fell back in a faint. 
They were forced to take her back to the room which she 
had just quitted. One fit of hysterics succeeded another. 
The doctor was sent for— the apothecary arrived. Mrs. Bute 
took up the post of nurse by her bedside. ** Her rela- 
tions ought to be round about her," that amiable woman 
said. 

She had scarcely been carried up to her room when a new 
person arrived to whom it was also necessary to break the 
news. This was Sir Pitt. " Where's Becky?" he said, com- 
ing in. "Where's her traps? She's coming with me to 
Queen's Crawley." 

" Have you not heard the astonishing intelligence re- 
garding her surreptitious union ?" Briggs asked. 

"What's that to me?" Sir Pitt asked: "I know she's 
married. That makes no odds. Tell her to come down at 
once, and not keep me." 

" Are you not aware, sir," Miss Briggs asked, " that she 
has left our roof, to the dismay of Miss Crawley, who is 
nearly killed by the intelligence of Captain Rawdon's union 
with her ?" 

When Sir Pitt Crawley heard that Rebecca was married to 
his son, he broke out into a fury of language which it would 
do no good to repeat in this place, as indeed it sent poor 
Briggs shuddering out of the ^o^m : and with her we will 



i: 



THE LETTER ON THE PINCUSHION: i 7i 

shut the door upon the figure of the frenzied old man, wild 
with hatred and insane with baffled desire. 

One day after he went to Queen's Crawley, he burst like a 
madman into the room she had used when there — dashed open 
her boxes with his foot, and flung about her papers, clothes, 
and other relics. Miss Horrocks, the butler's daughter, took 
some of them. The children dressed themselves and acted 
plays in the others. It was but a few days after the poor 
mother had gone to her lonely burying-place, and was laid, 
unwept and disregarded, in a vault full of strangers. 

" Suppose the old lady doesn't come to," Rawdon said to 
his little wife, as they sat together in the snug little Bromp- 
ton lodgings. She had been trying the new piano all the 
morning. The new gloves fitted her to a nicety ; the new 
shawls became her wonderfully ; the new rings glittered on 
her little hands, and the new watch ticked at her waist. 
" Suppose she don't come round, eh, Becky ?" 

'*/'// make your fortune," she said ; and Delilah patted 
Samson's cheek. 

" You can do anything," he said, kissing the little hand. 
" By Jove you can ; and we'll drive down to the Star and Gar- 
ter and dine, by Jove." 



n6 



VANITY FAIR. 



CHAPTER XVII. 



i9oW HAPTAIN DOBBIN BOUGHT A PIANO. 




''-^• 



^S^^^^nJ 



F there is any exhibition in all Vanity/ 
Fair which Satire and Sentiment can 
visit arm in arm together ; where you 
light on the strangest contrasts laugh- 
able and tearful ; where you may be 
gentle and pathetic, or savage and cyni- 
cal with perfect propriety — it is at one 
of those public assemblies, a crowd of 
which are advertised every day in the 
last page of the Times newspaper, and 
over which the late Mr. George Rob- 
ins used to preside with so much dig- 
nity. There are very few London 
people, as I fancy, who have not attended at these meetings, 
and all with a taste for moralizing must have thought, with a 
sensation and interest not a little startling and queer, of the 
day when their turn shall come, too, and Mr. Hammerdown 
will sell by the orders of Diogenes's assignees, or will be in- 
structed by the executors, to offer to public competition the li- 
brary, furniture, plate, wardrobe, and choice cellar of wines 
of Epicurus, deceased. 

Even with the most selfish disposition, the Vanity-fairian, 
as he witnesses this sordid part of the obsequies of a departed 
friend, can't but feel some sympathies and regret. My Lord 
Dives's remains are in the family vault ; the statuaries are cut- 
ting an inscription veraciously commemorating his virtues, 
and the sorrows of his heir, who is disposing of his goods. 
What guest at Dives's table can pass the familiar house with- 
out a sigh ? — the familiar house of which the lights used to 
shine so cheerfully at seven o'clock, of which the hall-doors 
opened so readily, of which the obsequious servants, as you 
passed up the comfortable stair, sounded your name from 
landing to landing, until it reached the apartment where jolly 
old Dives welcomed his friends ! What a number of them he 
had, and what a noble way of entertaining them ! How witty 



I 



HOW CAP TAIN DOBBIN BO UGHT A PI A NO. i J 7 

people used to be here who were morose when they got out 
of the door ; and how courteous and friendly men who 
slandered and hated each other everywhere else ! He was 
pompous, but with such a cook what would one not swallow ? 
he was rather dull, perhaps, but would not such wine make 
any conversation pleasant ? We must get some of his Bur- 
gundy at any price, the mourners cry at his club. " I got this 
box at old Dives's sale, ' ' Pincher says, handing it round, ' ' one 
of Louis XV. 's mistresses — pretty thing, is it not? — sweet 
miniature," and they talk of the way in which young Dives 
is dissipating his fortune. 

How changed the house is, though ! The front is patched 
over with bills, setting forth the particulars of the furniture 
in staring capitals. They have hung a shred of carpet out 
of an up-stairs window — a half dozen of porters are lounging 
on the dirty steps — the hall swarms with dingy guests of 
Oriental countenance, who thrust printed cards into your 
hand and offer to bid. Old women and amateurs have in- 
vaded the upper apartments, pinching the bed-curtains, pok- 
ing into the feathers, shampooing the mattresses, and clap- 
ping the wardrobe drawers to and fro. Enterprising young 
house-keepers are measuring the looking-glasses and hang- 
ings to see if they will suit the new menage — (Snob will brag 
for years that he has purchased this or that at Dives's sale) — 
and Mr. Hammerdown is sitting on the great mahogany din- 
ing-tables, in the dining-room below, waving the ivory ham- 
mer, and employing all the artifices of eloquence, enthusiasm, 
entreaty, reason, despair ; shouting to his people ; satirizing 
Mr. Davids for his sluggishness ; inspiriting Mrs. Moss into 
action ; imploring, commanding, bellowing, until down comes 
the hammer like fate, and we pass to the next lot. O Dives ! 
who would ever have thought, as we sat round the broad 
table sparkling with plate and spotless linen, to have seen such 
a dish at the head of it as that roaring auctioneer ? 

It was rather late in the sale. The excellent drawing-room 
furniture by the best makers ; the rare and famous wines se- 
lected, regardless of cost, and with the well-known taste of 
the purchaser ; the rich and complete set of family plate, had 
been sold on the previous days. Certain of the best wines 
(which all had a great character among amateurs in the \ 
neighborhood) had been purchased for his master, who knew / 
them very well, by the butler of our friend John Osborne, Es- 
quire, of Russell Square. A small portion of the most useful 
articles of the plate had been bought by some young stock- 
brokers from the City. And now, the public being invited to 



178 



VANITY FAIR, 



the purchase of minor objects, it happened that the orator on 
the table was expatiating on the merits of a picture, which he 
sought to recommend to his audience ; it was by no means 
so select or numerous a company as had attended the pre- 
vious days of the auction. 

'* No. 329," roared Mr. Hammerdown. " Portrait of a 
gentleman on an elephant. Who'll bid for the gentleman on 
the elephant ? Lift up the picture, Blowman, and let the 
company examine this lot." A long, pale, military-look- 
ing gentleman, seated demurely at the mahogany table, could 
not help grinning as this valuable lot was shown by Mr. Blow- 
man. " Turn the elephant to the captain, Blowman. What 
shall we say, sir, for the elephant?" but the captain, blush- 
ing in a very hurried and discomfited manner, turned away 
his head. 

" Shall we say twenty guineas for this work of art ? — fif- 
teen, five, name your own price. The gentleman without the 
elephant is worth five pound." 

" I wonder it a'n't come down with him," said a profes- 
sional wag, " he's anyhow a precious big one ;" at which (for 
the elephant-rider was represented as of a very stout figure) 
there was a general giggle in the room. 

" Don't be trying to depreciate the value of the lot, Mr. 
Moss," Mr. Hammerdown said ; "let the company examine 
it as a work of art — the attitude of the gallant animal quite 
according to natur' ; the gentleman in a nankeen-jacket, his 

gun in his hand, is going to the 
chase ; in the distance a bany- 
hann-tree and a pagody, most 
likely resemblances of some in- 
teresting spot in our famous 
Eastern possessions. How much 
for this lot ? Come, gentlemen, 
don't keep me here all day." 

Some one bid five shillings, at 
which the military gentleman 
looked toward the quarter from 
which this splendid offer had 
come, and there saw another 
officer with a young lady on his 
arm, who both appeared to be 
highly amused with the scene, 
and to whom, finally, this lot was knocked down for half a 
guinea. He at the table looked more surprised and discom- 
posed than ever when he spied this pair, and his head sank 





An Elephant for Sale. 



I 






HO W CAPTAIN DOBBIN BO UGHT A PIANO. i 79 

into his military collar, and he turned his back upon them, 
so as to avoid them altogether. 

Of all the other articles which Mr. Hammerdown had the 
honor to offer for public competition that day it is not our 
purpose to make mention, save of one only, a little square 
piano, which came down from the upper regions of the house 
(the state grand piano having been disposed of previously) ; 
this the young lady tried with a rapid and skilful hand 
(making the officer blush and start again), and for it, when 
its turn came, her agent began to bid. 

But there was an opposition here. The Hebrew aide-de- 
camp in the service of the officer at the table bid against the 
Hebrew gentleman employed by the elephant purchasers, 
and a brisk battle ensued over this little piano, the combat- 
ants being greatly encouraged by Mr. Hammerdown. 

At last, when the competition had been prolonged for 
some time, the elephant captain and lady desisted from the 
race ; and the hammer coming down, the auctioneer said, 
*' Mr. Lewis, twenty-five," and Mr. Lewis's chief thus be- 
came the proprietor of the little square piano. Having ef- 
fected the purchase, he sat up as if he was greatly relieved, 
and the unsuccessful competitors catching a glimpse of him 
at this moment, the lady said to her friend, 

" Why, Rawdon, it's Captain Dobbin." 

I suppose Becky was discontented with the new piano her 
husband had hired for her, or perhaps the proprietors of that 
instrument had fetched it away, declining further credit, or 
perhaps she had a particular attachment for the one which she 
had just tried to purchase, recollecting it in old days, when 
she used to play upon it, in tne little sitting-room of our dear 
Amelia Sedley. 

-The sale was at the old house in Russell Square, where 
we passed some evenings together at the beginning of this 
story. Good old John Sedley was a ruined man. His name 
had been proclaimed as a defaulter on the Stock Exchange, 
and his bankruptcy and commercial extermination had fol- 
lowed. Mr. Osborne's butler came to buy some of the fa- 
mous port wine, to transfer to the cellars over the way. As 
for one dozen well-manufactured silver spoons and forks at 
per oz., and one dozen dessert ditto, ditto, there were three 
young stock-brokers (Messrs. Dale, Spiggot, and Dale, of 
Threadneedle Street, indeed), who, having had dealings with 
the old man, and kindnesses from him in days when he was 
kind to everybody with whom he dealt, sent this little spar 



l8o VANITY FAIR. 

out of the wreck with their love to good Mrs. Sedley ; and 
with respect to the piano, as it had been Amelia's, and as she 
might miss it and want one now, and as Captain William 
Dobbin could no more play upon it than he could dance on 
the tight-rope, it is probable that he did not purchase the in- 
strument for his own use. 

In a word, it arrived that evening at a wonderful small cot- 
tage in a street leading from the Fulham Road — one of those 
streets which have the finest romantic names — (this was 
called St. Adelaide Villas, Anna-Maria Road, West), where 
the houses look like baby-houses ; where the people, looking 
out of the first-floor windows, must infallibly, as you think, 
sit with their feet in the parlors ; where the shrubs in the lit- 
tle gardens in front bloom with a perennial display of little 
children's pinafores, little red socks, caps, etc. (polyandria 
polygynia) ; whence you hear the sound of jingling spinets 
and women singing ; where little porter pots hang on the 
railings sunning themselves ; whither of evenings you see 
City clerks padding wearily — here it was that Mr, Clapp, 
the clerk of Mr. Sedley, had his domicile, and in this asylum 
the good old gentleman hid his head with his wife and daugh- 
ter when the crash came, 

Jos Sedley had acted as a man of his disposition would, when 
the announcement of the family misfortune reached him. He 
did not come to London, but he wrote to his mother to draw 
upon his agents for whatever money was wanted, so that 
his kind, broken-spirited old parents had no present poverty 
to fear. This done, Jos went on at the boarding-house at 
Cheltenham pretty much as before. He drove his curricle ; 
he drank his claret ; he played his rubber ; he told his Indian 
stories, and the Irish widow consoled and flattered him as 
usual. His present of money, needful as it was, made 
little impression on his parents ; and I have heard Amelia 
say that the first day on which she saw her father lift up 
his head after the failure was on the receipt of the packet 
of forks and spoons with the young stock-brokers' love, over 
which he burst out crying like a child, being greatly more 
affected than even his wife, to whom the present was ad- 
dressed. Edward Dale, the junior of the house, who pur- 
chased the spoons for the firm, was, in fact, very sweet upon 
Amelia, and offered for her in spite of all. He married Miss 
Louisa Cutts (daughter of Higham and Cutts, the eminent 
corn-factors) with a handsome fortune in 182c, and is now 
liv^ing in splendor, and with a numerous family, at his ele- 



HOW CAPTAIN- DOBBIN BOUGHT A PIANO. l8l 

gant villa, Muswell Hill. But we must not let the recollec- 
tions of this good fellow cause us to diverge from the principal 
history. 

I hope the reader has much too good an opinion of Cap- 
tain and Mrs. Crawley to suppose that they ever would have 
dreamed of -paying a visit to so remote a district as Blooms- 
bury, if they thought the family whom they proposed to honor 
with a visit were not merely out of fashion, but out of money, 
and could be serviceable to them in no possible manner. 
Rebecca was entirely surprised at the sight of the comfortable 
old house where she had met with no small kindness ransacked 
by brokers and bargainers, and its quiet family treasures 
given up to public desecration and plunder. A month after 
her flight, she had bethought her of Amelia, and Rawdon, 
with a horse-laugh, had expressed a perfect willingness to 
see young George Osborne again. " He's a very agreeable 
acquaintance, Beck," the wag added. " I'd like to sell him 
another horse, Beck. I'd like to play a few more games at 
billiards with him. He'd be what I call useful just now, 
Mrs. C. — ha, ha !" by which sort of speech it is not to be sup- 
posed that Rawdon Crawley had a deliberate desire to cheat 
Mr. Osborne at play, but only wished to take that fair ad- 
vantage of him which almost every sporting gentleman in 
Vanity Fair considers to be his due from his neighbor. 

The old aunt was long in " coming-to." A month had 
elapsed. Rawdon was denied the door by Mr. Bowls ; his 
servants could not get a lodgment in the house at Park 
Lane ; his letters were sent back unopened. Miss Crawley 
never stirred out — she was unwell — and Mrs. Bute remained 
still, and never left her. Crawley and his wife both of them 
augured evil from the continued presence of Mrs. Bute. 

" Gad, I begin to perceive now why she was always 
bringing us together at Queen's Crawley," Rawdon said. 

" What an artful little woman !" ejaculated Rebecca. 

" Well, /don't regret it, if you don't," the captain cried, 
still in an amorous rapture with his wife, who rewarded him 
with a kiss by way of reply, and was indeed not a little grat- 
ilied by the generous confidence of her husband. 

'* If he had but a little more brains," she thought to herself, 
*' I might make something of him ;" but she never let him 
perceive the opinion she had of him ; listened with indefat- 
igable complacency to his stories of the stable and the mess ; 
laughed at all his jokes ; felt the greatest interest in Jack 
Spatterdash, whose cab-horse had come down, and Bob Mar. 



1 82 • VANITY FAIR. 

tingale, who had been taken up in a gambling-house, and 
Tom Cinqbars, who was going to ride the steeple-chase. 
When he came home she was alert and happy ; when he went 
out she pressed him to go ; when he stayed at home, she 
played and sang for him, made him good drinks, superintended 
his dinner, warmed his slippers, and steeped his soul in com- 
fort. The best of women (I have heard my grandmother say) 
are hypocrites. We don't know how much they hide from us ; 
how watchful they are when they seem most artless and 
confidential ; how often those frank smiles which they wear 
so easily are traps to cajole or elude or disarm — I don't mean 
in your mere coquettes, but your domestic models and 
paragons of female virtue. Who has not seen a woman 
hide the dulness of a stupid husband, or coax the fury of 
a savage one ? We accept this amiable slavishness, and 
praise a woman for it ; we call this pretty treachery truth. 
A good housewife is of necessity a humbug ; and Cornelia's 
husband was hoodwinked, as Potiphar was — only in a differ- 
ent way. 

By these attentions, that veteran rake, Rawdon Crawley, 
found himself converted into g. ver}'- happy and submissive 
married man. His former haunts knew him not. They asked 
about him once or twice at his clubs, but did not miss him 
much— in those booths of Vanity Fair people seldom do miss 
each other. His secluded wife ever smiling and cheerful, his 
little comfortable lodgings, snug meals, and homely evenings, 
had all the charms of novelty and secrecy. The marriage was 
not yet declared to the world or published in the Morning 
Post. All his creditors would have come rushing on him in a 
body had they known that he was united to a woman with- 
out fortune. " My relations won't cry fie upon me," Becky 
said, with rather a bitter laugh ; and she was quite contented 
to wait until the old aunt should be reconciled before she 
claimed her place in society. So she lived at Brompton, and 
meanwhile saw no one, or only those few of her husband's 
male companions who were admitted into her little dining- 
room. These were all charmed with her. The little din- 
ners, the laughing and chatting, the music afterward, de- 
lighted all who participated in these enjoyments. Major Mar- 
tingale never thought about asking to see the marriage li- 
cense. Captain Cinqbars was perfectly enchanted with her 
skill in making punch. And young Lieutenant Spatterdash 
(who was fond of piquet, and whom Crawley would often in- 
vite) was evidently and quickly smitten by Mrs. Crawley ; but 
her own circumspection and modesty never forsook her for a 



HOW CAPTAIN DOBBIN BOUGHT A PIANO. 185 

moment, and Crawley's reputation as afire-eating and jealous 
warrior was a further and complete defence to his little wife. 

There are gentlemen of very good blood and fashion in 
this city who never have entered a lady's drawing-room ; so 
that though Rawdon Crawley's marriage might be talked 
about in his county, where, of course, Mrs. Bute had spread 
the news, in London it was doubted, or not heeded, or not 
talked about at all. He lived comfortably on credit. He had 
a large capital of debts, which, laid out judiciously, will carry 
a man along for many years, and on which certain men about 
town contrive to live a hundred times better than even men 
with ready money can do. Indeed, who is there that walks 
London streets but can point out a half dozen of men riding 
by him splendidly, while he is on foot, courted by fashion, 
bowed into their carriages by tradesmen, denying themselves 
nothing, and living on who knows what ? We see Jack Thrift- 
less prancing in the park, or darting in his brougham down 
Pall Mall ; we eat his dinners served on his miraculous plate. 
"How did this begin," we say, "or where will it end?" 
" My dear fellow," I heard Jack once say, " I owe money in 
every capital in Europe." The end must come some day, but 
in the mean time Jack thrives as much as ever ; people are 
glad enough to shake him by the hand, ignore the little dark 
stories that are whispered every now and then against him, 
and pronounce him a good-natured, jovial, reckless fellow. 

Truth obliges us to confess that Rebecca had married a 
gentleman of this order. Everything was plentiful in his 
house but ready money, of which their menage pretty early 
felt the want ; and reading the Gazette one day, and coming 
upon the announcement of " Lieutenant G. Osborne to be 
captain by purchase, vice Smith, who exchanges," Rawdon 
uttered that sentiment regarding Amelia's lover which ended 
in the visit to Russell Square. 

When Rawdon and his wife wished to communicate with 
Captain Dobbin at the sale, and to know particulars of the 
catastrophe which had befallen Rebecca's old acquaintances, 
the captain had vanished ; and such information as they got 
was from a stray porter or broker at the auction. 

" Look at them with their hooked beaks," Becky said, get- 
ting into the buggy, her picture under her arm, in great glee. 
" They're like vultures after a battle." 

" Don't know. Never was in action, my dear. Ask Mar- 
tingale ; he was in Spain, aide-de-camp to General Blazes." 

" He was a very kind old man, Mr. Sedley," Rebecca said ; 
** I'm really sorry he's gone wrong." 



184 VANITY FAIR. 

" Oh, stock-brokers — bankrupts — used to it, you know," 
Rawdon replied, cutting a fly off the horse's ear. 

" I wish we could have afforded some of the plate, Raw- 
don," the wife continued sentimentally. " Five-and-twenty 
guineas was monstrously dear for that little piano. We 
chose it at Broadwood's for Amelia, when she came from 
school. It only cost five-and-thirty then." 

" What d'ye-call'em — ' Osborne,' will cry off now, I sup- 
pose, since the family is smashed. How cut up your pretty 
little friend will be ; hey, Becky ?" 

" I dare say she'll recover it," Becky said with a smile ; 
and they drove on and talked about something else. 



WHO FLA YED ON THE PIANO, 



185 



CHAPTER XVIII. 



WHO PLAYED ON THE PIANO CAPTAIN DOBBIN BOUGHT. 



UR surprised story now finds 
itself for a moment among 
very famous events and per- 
sonages, and hanging on to 
the skirts of history. When 
the eagles of Napoleon Bo- 
naparte, the Corsican up- 
start, were flying from Pro- 
vence, where they had per- 
ched after a brief sojourn in 
Elba, and from steeple to 
steeple until they reached 
the towers of Notre Dame, I 
wonder whether the Imperial 
birds had any eye for a little 
corner of the parish of 
Bloomsbury, London, which 
you might have thought so 
quiet that even the whirring 
and flapping of those mighty 
wings would pass unobserved there ? 

" Napoleon has landed at Cannes." Such news might 
create a panic at Vienna, and cause Russia to drop his cards 
and take Prussia into a corner, and Talleyrand and Metter- 
nich to wag their heads together, while Prince Hardenberg, 
and even the present Marquis of Londonderry, were puzzled ; 
but how was this intelligence to affect a young lady in Rus- 
sell Square, before whose door the watchman sang the hours 
when she was asleep ; who, if she strolled in the square, was 
guarded there by the railings and the beadle ; who, if she 
walked ever so short a distance to buy a ribbon in South- 
ampton Row, was followed by Black Sambo with an enormous 
cane ; who was always cared for, dressed, put to bed, and 
watched over by ever so many guardian angels, with and with- 
out wages? BonDieu^ I say, is it not hard that the fateful 




iS6 VAiVITV FAIR, 

rush of the great Imperial struggle can't take place without 
affecting a poor little harmless girl of eighteen, who is occu- 
pied in billing and cooing, or working muslin collars in Rus- 
sell Square ? You, too, kindly, homely flower ! — is the great 
roaring war tempest coming to sweep you down, here although 
cowering under the shelter of Holborn ? Yes ; Napoleon is 
flinging his last stake, and poor little Emmy Sedley's happi- 
ness forms, somehow, part of it. 

In the first place, her father's fortune was swept down with 
that fatal news. All his speculations had of late gone wrong 
with the luckless old gentleman. Ventures had failed ; mer- 
chants had broken ; funds had risen when he calculated 
they would fall. What need to particularize ? If success is 
rare and slow, everybody knows how quick and easy ruin is. 
Old Sedley had kept his own sad counsel. Everything seemed 
to go on as usual in the quiet, opulent house ; the good-nat- 
ured mistress pursuing, quite unsuspiciously, her bustling 
idleness and daily easy vocations ; the daughter absorbed 
still in one selfish, tender thought, and quite regardless of all 
the world besides, when that final crash came, under which 
the worthy family fell. 

One night Mrs. Sedley was writing cards for a party ; the 
Osbornes had given one, and she must not be behindhand ; 
John Sedley, who had come home very late from the City, sat 
silent at the chimney-side, while his wife was prattling to 
him ; Emmy had gone up to her room ailing and low-spirited. 
" She's not happy," the mother went on. ** George Osborne 
neglects her. I've no patience with the airs of those people. 
The girls have not been in the house these three weeks ; and 
George has been twice in town without coming. Edward 
Dale saw him at the opera. Edward would marry her I'm 
sure; and there's Captain Dobbi i, who, I think, would — 
only I hate all army men. Such a dandy as George has be- 
come. With his military airs, indeed ! We must show some 
folks that we're as good as they. Only give Edward Dale 
any encouragement, and you'll see. We must have a party, 
Mr. S. Why don't you speak, John ? Shall I say Tuesday 
fortnight? Why don't you answer? Good God, John, what 
has happened ?" 

John Sedley sprang up out of his chair to meet his wife, 
who ran to him. He seized her in his arms, and said with a 
hasty voice, " We're ruined, Mary. We've got the world to 
begin over again, dear. It's best that you should know all, 
and at once." As he spoke, he trembled in every limb, and 
almost fell. He thought the news would have overpowered 



WHO PLAYED ON THE PIANO. 187 

his wife — his wife, to whom he had never said a hard word. 
But it was he that was the most moved, sudden as the shock 
was to her. When he sank back into his seat, it was the wife 
that took the office of consoler. She took his trembling hand, 
and kissed it, and put it round her neck ; she called him 
her John — her dear John — her old man — her kind old man ; 
she poured out a hundred words of incoherent love and 
tenderness; her faithful voice and simple caresses wrought 
this sad heart up to an inexpressible delight and anguish, and' 
cheered and solaced his overburdened soul. 

Only once in the course of the long night, as they sat to- 
gether, and poor Sedley opened his pent-up soul, and told 
the story of his losses and embarrassments — the treason of 
some of his oldest friends, the manly kindness of some, from 
whom he never could have expected it — in a general confes- 
sion — only once did the faithful wife give way to emotion. 

" My God, my God, it will break Emmy's heart," she said. 

The father had forgotten the poor girl. She was lying 
awake and unhappy, overhead. In the midst of friends, home, 
and kind parents, she was alone. To how many people can 
any one tell all ? Who will be open where there is no sym- 
pathy, or has call to speak to those who never can under- 
stand ? Our gentle Amelia was thus solitary. She had no 
conifidante, so to speak, ever since she had anything to confide. 
She could not tell the old mother her doubts and cares ; 
the would-be sisters seemed every day more strange to her. 
And she had misgivings and fears which she dared not ac- 
knowledge to herself, though she was always secretly brooding 
over them. 

Her heart tried to persist in asserting that George Osborne 
was worthy and faithful to her, though she knew otherwise. 
How many a thing had she said, and got no echo from him ! 
How man)' suspicions of selfishness and indifference had she 
to encounter and obstinately overcome ! To whom could the 
poor little martyr tell these daily struggles and tortures ? Her 
hero himself only half understood her. She did not dare to 
own that the man she loved was her inferior, or to feel that 
she had given her heart away too soon. Given once, the pure, 
bashful maiden was too modest, too tender, too trustful, too 
weak, too much woman, to recall it. We are Turks with the 
affections of our women, and have made them subscribe to 
our doctrine too. We let their bodies go abroad liberally 
enough, with smiles and ringlets and pink bonnets to disguise 
them, instead of veils and yakmaks. But their souls must be 
seen by only one man, and they obey not unwillingly, and 



IQQ VANITY FAIR. 

consent to remain at home as our slaves — ministering to Uj, 
and doing drudgery for us. 

So imprisoned and tortured was this gentle little heart, 
when in the month of March, Anno Domini 1815, Napoleon 
landed at Cannes, and Louis XVIII. fled, and all Europe was 
in alarm, and the funds fell, and old John Sedley was ruined. 

We are not going to follow Vhe worthy old stock-broker 
through those last pangs and agonies of ruin through which 
he passed before his commercial demise befell. They declared 
him at the Stock Exchange ; he was absent from his house of 
business ; his bills were protested ; his act of bankruptcy 
formal. The house and furniture of Russell Square were 
seized and sold up, and he and his family were thrust away, 
as we have seen, to hide their heads where they might. 

John Sedley had not the heart to review the domestic es- 
tablishment who have appeared now and anon in cur pages, 
and of whom he was now forced by poverty to take leave. 
The wages of those worthy people were discharged with that 
punctuality which men frequently show who only owe in 
great sums — they were sorry to leave good places, but they 
did not break their hearts at parting from their adored 
master and mistress. Amelia's maid was profuse in condo- 
lences, but went off quite resigned to better herself in a gen- 
teeler quarter of the town. Black Sambo, with the infatuation 
of his profession, determined on setting up a public-house. 
Honest old Mrs. Blenkinsop, indeed, who had seen the birth 
of Jos and Amelia, and the wooing of John Sedley and his 
wife, was for staying by them without wages, having amassed 
a considerable sum in their service ; and she accompanied 
the fallen people into their new and humble place of refuge, 
where she tended them and grumbled against them for a while. 

Of all Sedley's opponents in his debates with his creditors 
which now ensued, and harassed the feelings of the humiliated 
old gentleman so severely that in six weeks he oldened more 
than he had done for fifteen years before, the most deter- 
mined and obstinate seemed to be John Osborne, his old friend 
and neighbor — John Osborne, whom he had set up in life, who 
was under a hundred obligations to him, and whose son was 
to marry Sedley's daughter. Any one of these circumstances 
would account for the bitterness of Osborne's opposition. 

When one man has been under very remarkable obligations 
to another, with whom he subsequently quarrels, a common 
sense of decency, as it were, makes of the former a much sev- 
erer enemy than a mere stranger' would be. To account for 



WHO FLAYED ON THE PIANO. 189 

your own hard-heartedness and ingratitude in such a case,3^ou 
are bound to prove the other party's crime; It is not that 
you are selfish, brutal, and angry at the failure of a specula- 
tion — no, no — it is that yo\ir partner has led you into it by 
the basest treachery and with the most sinister motives. From 
a mere sense of consistency, a persecutor is bound to show 
that the fallen man is a villain — otherwise he, the persecutor, 
is a wretch himself. 

And as a general rule, which may make all creditors who 
are inclined to be severe pretty comfortable in their minds, 
no men embarrassed are altogether honest, very likely. They 
conceal something ; they exaggerate chances of good luck ; 
hide away the real state of affairs ; say that things are flour- 
ishing when they are hopeless ; keep a smiling face (a dreary 
smile it is) upon the verge of bankruptcy — are ready to lay 
hold of any pretext for delay or of any money, so as to stave 
off the inevitable ruin a few days longer. " Down with such 
dishonesty," says the creditor in triumph, and reviles his sink- 
ing enemy. " You fool, why do you catch at a straw ?" calm 
good sense says to the man that is drowning. " You villain, 
why do you shrink from plunging into the irretrievable Ga- 
zette ?" says prosperity to the poor devil battling in that black 
gulf. Who has not remarked the readiness with which the 
closest of friends and honestest of men suspect and accuse 
each other of cheating when they fall out on money matters ? 
Everybody does it. Everybody is right, I suppose, and the 
world is a rogue. 

Then Osborne had the intolerable sense of former benefits 
to goad and irritate him ; these are always a cause of hos- 
tility aggravated. Finally, he had to break off the match 
between Sedley's daughter and his son ; and as it had gone 
very far indeed, and as the poor girl's happiness and perhaps 
character were compromised, it was necessary to show the 
strongest reasons for the rupture, and for John Osborne to 
prove John Sedley to be a very bad character indeed. 

At the meetings of creditors, then, he comported himself 
with a savageness and scorn toward Sedley, which almost 
succeeded in breaking the heart of that ruined, bankrupt man. 
On George's intercourse with Amelia he put an instant veto 
— menacing the youth with maledictions if he broke his com- 
mands, and vilipending the poor innocent girl as the basest 
and most artful of vixens. One of the great conditions of 
anger and hatred is, that you must tell and believe lies against 
the hated object, in order, as we said, to be consistent. 

When the great crash came — the announcement of ruin and 



iqo VANITY FAIR. 

the departure from Russell Square, and the declaratir'n that 
all was over between her and George — all over between her 
and love, her and happiness, her and faith in the world — a 
brutal letter from John Osborne told her in a few curt lines 
that her father's conduct had been of such a nature that all 
engagements between the families were at an end — when the 
final award came, it did not shock her so much as her parents, 
as her mother rather, expected (for John Sedley himself was 
entirely prostrate in the ruins of his own affairs and shattered 
honor). Amelia took the news very palely and calmly. It 
was only the confirmation of the dark presages which had 
long gone before. It was the mere reading of the sentence — 
of the crime she had long ago been guilty — the crime of lov- 
ing warmly, too violently, against reason. She told no more of 
her thoughts now than she had before. She seemed scarcely 
more unhappy now, when convinced all hope was over, than 
before, when she felt but dared not confess that it was gone. 
So she changed from the large house to the small one with- 
out any mark or difference ; remained in her little room for 
the most part ; pined silently ; and died away day by day. I 
do not mean to say that all females are so. My dear Miss 
Bullock, I do not think your heart would break in this way. 
You are a strong-minded young woman with proper princi- 
ples. I do not venture to say that mine would ; it has suffered, 
and, it must be confessed, survived. But there are some 
souls thus gently constituted, thus frail, and delicate, and 
lender. 

Whenever old John Sedley thought of the affair between 
George and Amelia, or alluded to it, it was with bitterness 
almost as great as Mr. Osborne himself had shown. He cursed 
Osborne and his family as heartless, wicked, and ungrateful. 
No power on earth, he swore, would induce him to marry his 
daughter to the son of such a villain, and he ordered Emmy 
to banish George from her mind, and to return all the presents 
and letters which she had ever had from him. 

She promised acquiescence, and tried to obey. She put 
up the two or three trinkets ; and as for the letters, she drew 
them out of the place where she kept them, and read them 
over — as if she did not know them by heart already ; but she 
could not part with them. That effort was too much for her ; 
she placed them back in her bosom again — as you have seen a 
woman nurse a child that is dead. Young Amelia felt that 
she would die or lose her senses outright if torn away from 
this last consolation. How she used to blush and lighten up 
when those letters came ! How she used to trip away with a. 



WHO PLAYED ON THE PIANO. 191 

beating heart, so that she might read unseen ! If they were 
cold, yet how perversely this fond little soul interpreted them 
into warmth ! If they were short or selfish, what excuses stie 
found for the writer ! 

It was over these few worthless papers that she brooded and 
brooded. She lived in her past life — every letter seemed to 
recall some circumstance of it. How well she remembered 
them all I His looks and tones, his dress, what he said and 
how — these relics and remembrances of dead affection were all 
that were left her in the world. And the business of her life 
was — to watch the corpse of Love. 

To death she looked with inexpressible longing. Then, she 
thought, I shall always be able to follow him. 1 am not prais- 
ing her conduct or setting her up as a model for Miss Bullock 
to imitate. Miss B. knows how to regulate her feelings bet- 
ter than this poor little creature. Miss B. would never have 
committed herself as that imprudent Amelia had done ; 
pledged her love irretrievably ; confessed her heart away, and 
got back nothing — only a little promise which was snapped 
and worthless in a moment. A long engagement is a part- 
nership which one party is free to keep or to break, but which 
involves all the capital of the other. 

Be cautious, then, young ladies ; be wary how you engage. 
Be shy of loving frankly ; never tell all you feel, or (a bet- 
ter way still) feel very little. See the consequences of being 
prematurely honest and confiding, and mistrust yourselves and 
everybody. Get yourselves married as they do in France, 
where the lawyers are the bridesmaids and confidants. At any 
rate, never have any feelings which make you uncomfortable, 
or make any promises which you cannot at any required 
moment command and withdraw. That is the way to get on, 
and be respected, and have a virtuous character in Vanity 
Fair. 

If Amelia could have heard the comments regarding her 
which were made in the circle from which her father's ruin 
had just driven her, she would have seen what her own crimes 
were, and how entirely her character was jeopardied. Such 
criminal imprudence Mrs. Smith never knew of ; such horrid 
familiarities Mrs. Brown had always condemned, and the end 
might be a warning to her daughters. " Captain Osborne, of 
course, could not marry a bankrupt's daughter," the Misses 
Dobbin said. " It was quite enough to have been swindled 
by the father. As for that little Amelia, her folly had really 
passed all — " 

" All what ?" Captain Dobbin roared out. "Haven't they 



192 VANITY FAIR. 

been engaged ever since they were children ? Wasn't it as 
good as a marriage ? Dare any soul on earth breathe a word 
against the sweetest, the purest, the tenderest, the most angel- 
ical of young women ?" 

" La, William, don't be highty tighty with us. We're not 
men. We can't fight you," Miss Jane said. " We've said 
nothing against Miss Sedley, but that her conduct through- 
out was most iinpriident^ not to call it by any worse name ; 
and that her parents are people who certainly merit their mis- 
fortunes." 

" Hadn't you better, now that Miss Sedley is free, propose 
for her yourself, William ?" Miss Ann asked sarcastically. 
" It would be a most eligible family connection. He ! he !" 

" I marry her !" Dobbin said, blushing very much, and talk- 
ing quick. " If you are so ready, youn-g ladies, to chop and 
change, do you suppose that she is ? Laugh and sneer at 
that angel. She can't hear it ; and she's miserable and un- 
fortunate, and deserves to be laughed at. Go on joking, Ann. 
You're the wit of the family, and the others like to hear it." 

" I must tell you again we're not in a barrack, William," 
Miss Ann remarked. 

" In a barrack, by Jove — I wish anybody in a barrack would 
say what you do," cried out this uproused British lion. " I 
should like to hear a man breathe a word against her, by Ju- 
piter. But men don't talk in this way, Ann ; it's only women, 
who get together and hiss, and shriek, and cackle. There, 
get away — don't begin to cry. I only said you were a couple 
of geese," Will Dobbin said, perceiving Miss Ann's pink eyes 
were beginning to moisten as usual. * ' Well, you're not geese, 
you're swans — anything you like, only do, do leave Miss Sed- 
ley alone." 

Anything like William's infatuation about that silly little, 
flirting, ogling thing was never known, the mamma and sis- 
ters agreed together in thinking, and they trembled lest, her 
engagement being off with Osborne, she should take up im- 
mediately her other admirer and captain. In which fore- 
bodings these worthy young women no doubt judged according 
to the best of their experience ; or rather (for as yet they had 
had no opportunities of marrying or of jilting) according to 
their own notions of right nd wrong. 

"It is a mercy, mamma, that the regiment is ordered 
abroad," the girls said. " This danger, at any rate, is spared 
our brother." 

Such, indeed, was the fact ; and so it is that the French 
emperor comes in to perform a part in this domestic comedy 



WHO FLAYED ON THE PIANO. 193 

of Vanity Fair which we are now playing, and which would 
never have been enacted without the intervention of this au- 
gust mute personage. It was he that ruined the Bourbons and 
Mr. John Sedley. It was he whose arrival in his capital caDed 
up all France in arms to defend him there, and all Europe to 
oust him. While the French nation and army were swearing 
fidelity round the eagles in the Champ de Mars, four mighty 
European hosts were getting in motion for the great chasse 
a Vaigle ; and one of these was a British army, of which two 
heroes of ours, Captain Dobbin and Captain Osborne, formed 
a portion. 

The news of Napoleon's escape and landing was received by 
the gallant — th with a fiery delight and enthusiasm which ev- 
erybody can understand who knows that famous corps. From 
the colonel to the smallest drummer in the regiment, all were 
filled with hope and ambition and patriotic fury, and thanked 
the French emperor as for a personal kindness in coming to 
disturb the peace of Europe. Now was the time the — th had 
so long panted for, to show their comrades in arms that they 
could fight as well as the Peninsular veterans, and that all the 
pluck and valor of the — th had not been killed by the West 
Indies and the yellow fever. Stubble and Spooney looked 
to get their companies without purchase. Before the end of 
the campaign (which she resolved to share), Mrs. Major 
O'Dowd hoped to write herself Mrs. Colonel O'Dowd, C.B. 
Our two friends (Dobbin and Osborne) were quite as much 
excited as the rest, and each in his way — Mr. Dobbin very 
quietly, Mr. Osborne very loudly and energetically — was bent 
upon doing his duty, and gaining his share of honor and dis- 
tinction. 

The agitation thrilling through the country and army in con- 
sequence of this news was so great that private matters were 
little heeded, and hence probably George Osborne, just ga- 
zetted to his company, busy with preparations for the march, 
which must come inevitably, and panting for further promo- 
tion, was not so much affected by other incidents which would 
have interested him at a more quiet period. He was not, it 
must be confessed, very much cast down by good old Mr. Sed- 
ley's catastrophe. He tried his new uniform, which became 
him very handsomely, on the day when the first meeting of 
the creditors of the unfortunate gentleman took place. His 
father told him of the wicked, rascally, shameful conduct of 
the bankrupt, reminded him of what he had said about Ame- 
lia, and that their connection was broken off forever, and 
gave him that evening a good sum of money to pay for the 



194 VANITY FAIR. 

new clothes and epaulets in which he looked so well. Money 
was always useful to this free-handed young fellow, and he 
took it without many words. The bills were up in the Sedley 
house, where he had passed so many, many happy hours. He 
could see them as he walked from home that night (to the 
Old Slaughters', where he put up when in town) shining white 
in the moon. That comfortable home was shut, then, upon 
Amelia and her parents ; where had they taken refuge ? The 
thought of their ruin affected him not a little. He was very 
melancholy that night in the coffee-room at the Slaughters', 
and drank a good deal, as his comrades remarked there. 

Dobbin came in presently, cautioned him about the drink, 
which he only took, he said, because he was deuced low ; but 
when his friend began to put to him clumsy inquiries, and 
asked him for news in a significant manner, Osborne declined 
entering into con\ersation with him ; avowing, however, that 
he was devilish disturbed and unhappy. 

Three days afterward, Dobbin found Osborne in his room 
at the barracks, his head on the table, a number of papers 
about, the young captain evidently in a state of great de- 
spondency. " She — she's sent me back some things I gave her 
— some damned trinkets. Look here !" There was a little 
packet directed in the well-known hand to Captain George 
Osborne, and some things lying about — a ring, a silver knife 
he had bought as a boy, for her at a fair ; a gold chain, and a 
locket with hair in it. ** It's all over," said he, with a groan 
of sickening remorse. " Look, Will, you may read it if you 
like." 

There was a little letter of a few lines, to which he pointed, 
which said : 

" My papa has ordered me to return to you these presents, which you made 
in happier days to me ; and I am to write to you for the last time. I think, 
I know you feel as much as I do the blow which has come upon us. It is I 
that absolve you from an engagement which is impossible in our present mis- 
ery. I am sure you had no share in it, or in the cruel suspicions of Mr. 
Osborne, which are the hardest of all our griefs to bear. Farewell. Fare- 
well. I pray God to strengthen me to bear this and other calamities, and 
to bless you always A. 

" I shall often play upon the piano — your piano. It was like you to send 
it." 

Dobbin was very soft-hearted. The sight of women and 
children in pain always used to melt him. The idea of Ame- 
lia broken-hearted and lonely tore that good-natured soul with 
ans^uish. And he broke out into an emotion which anybody 
who likes may consider unmanly. He swore that Amelia waft 



WHO PLA YED ON THE PIANO. 195 

an angel, to which Osborne said ay with all his heart. He, 
too, had been reviewing the history of their lives — and had 
seen her from her childhood to her present age, so sweet, 
so innocent, so charmingly simple, and artlessly fond and 
tender. 

What a pang it was to lose all that — to have had it and not 
prized it ! A thousand homely scenes and recollections 
crowded on him — in which he always saw her good and beau- 
tiful. And for himself, he blushed with remorse and shame, 
as the remembrance of his own selfishness and indifference 
contrasted with that perfect purity. For a while, glory, war, 
everything was forgotten, and the pair of friends talked about 
her only. 

" Where are they ?" Osborne asked, after a long talk, and 
a long pause — and, in truth, with no little shame at thinking 
that he had taken no steps to follow her. " Where are they ? 
There's no address to the note." 

Dobbin knew. He had not merely sent the piano, but had 
written a note to Mrs. Sedley, and asked permission to come 
and see her — and he had seen her, and Amelia too, yesterday, 
before he came down to Chatham ; and, what is more, he had 
brought that farewell letter and packet which had so moved 
them. 

The good-natured fellow had found Mrs. Sedley only too 
willing to receive him, and greatly agitated by the arrival of 
the piano, which, as she conjectured, must have come from 
George, and was a signal of amity on his part. Captain 
Dobbin did not correct this error of the worthy lady, but 
listened to all her story of complaints and misfortunes with 
great sympathy — condoled with her losses and privations, and 
agreed in reprehending the cruel conduct of Mr. Osborne tow- 
ard his first benefactor. When she had eased her overflowing 
bosom somewhat, and poured forth many of her sorrows, he 
had the courage to ask actually to see Amelia, who was above 
in her room as usual, and whom her mother led trembling 
down-stairs. 

Her appearance was so ghastly, and her look of despair so 
pathetic, that honest William Dobbin was frightened as he 
beheld it, and read the most fatal forebodings in that pale, 
fixed face. After sitting in his company a minute or two, 
she put the packet into his hand, and said, "Take this to Cap- 
tain Osborne, if you please, and- — and I hope he's quite well — 
and it was very kind of you to coineand see us — and we like 
our new house very much. And I — I think I'll go up-stairs, 
for I'm not very strong." And with this, and a 



196 VANITY FAIR. 

courtesy and a smile, the poor child went her way. The moth- 
er, as she led her up, cast back looks of anguish toward Dob- 
bin. The good fellow wanted no such appeal. He loved her 
himself too fondly for that. Inexpressible grief and pity and 
terror pursued him, and he came away as if he was a criminal 
after seeing her. 

When Osborne heard that his friend had found her, he 
made hot and anxious inquiries regarding the poor child. 
How was she ? How did she look ? What did she say ? His 
comrade took his hand, and looked him in the face. 

" George, she's dying," William Dobbin said, and could 
speak no more. 

There was a buxom Irish servant-girl, who performed all 
the duties of the little house where the Sedley family had 
found refuge, and this girl had in vain, on many previous 
days, striven to give Amelia aid or consolation. Emmy was 
much too sad to answer, or even to be aware of, the attempts 
the other was making in her favor. 

Four hours after the talk between Dobbin and Osborne, 
this servant-maid came into Amelia's room, where she sat as 
usual, brooding silently over her letters — her little treasures. 
The girl, smiling, and looking arch and happy, made many 
trials to attract poor Emmy's attention, who, however, took 
no heed of her. 

" Miss Emmy !" said the girl. 

" I'm coming," Emmy said, not looking round. 

" There's a message," the maid went on. " There's some- 
thing — somebody — sure, here's a new letter for you — don't be 
reading them old ones any more." And she gave her the let- 
ter, which Emmy took, and read. 

" I must see you," the letter said. " Dearest Emmy — dear- 
est love — dearest wife, come to me." 

George and her mother were outside, waiting until she had 
read the letter. 



MISS CRA WLE Y AT NURSE, 



i97 



CHAPTER XIX. 



MISS CRAWLEY AT NURSE. 



E have seen how Mrs. Fir- 
kin, thelady's maid, as soon 
as any event of importance 
to the Crawley family came 
to her knowledge, felt 
bound to communicate it 
to Mrs. Bute Crawley at 
the Rectory ; and have be- 
fore mentioned how par- 
ticularly kind and atten- 
tive that good - natured 
lady was to Miss Crawley's 
confidential servant. She 
had been a gracious friend 
to Miss Briggs, the com- 
panion, also, and had se 
cured the latter's good- 
will by a number of those 
attentions and promises 
which cost so little in the 
making, and are yet so valuable and agreeable to the recipient. 
Indeed, every good economist and manager of a household 
must know how cheap and'' yet how amiable these professions 
are, and what a flavor they give to the most homely dish in 
life. Who was the blundering idiot who said that " fine 
words butter no parsnips" ? Half the parsnips of society are 
served and rendered palatable with no other sauce. As the 
immortal Alexis Soyer can make more delicious soup for a 
halfpenny than an ignorant cook can concoct with pounds of 
vegetables and meat, so a skilful artist will make a few simple 
and pleasing phrases go farther than ever so much substantial- 
benefit stock in the hands of a mere bungler. Nay, we know 
that substantial benefits often sicken some stomachs ; whereas, 
most will digest any amount of fine words, and be always 
eager for more of the same food. Mrs. Bute had told Briggs 




198 VANITY FAIR. 

and Firkin so often of the depth of ber affection for them, 
and what she would do, if she had Miss Crawley's fortune, for 
friends so excellent and attached, that the ladies in question 
had the deepest regard for her, and felt as much gratitude 
and confidence as if Mrs. Bute had loaded them with the most 
expensive favors. 

Rawdon Crawley, on the other hand, like a selfish heavy 
dragoon as he was, never took the least trouble to conciliate 
his aunt's aides-de-camp, showed his contempt for the pair 
with entire frankness — made Firkin pull off his boots on one 
occasion — sent her out in the rain on ignominious messages — 
and if he gave her a guinea, flung it to her as if it were a box 
on the ear. As his aunt, too, made a butt of Briggs, the 
captain followed the example, and levelled his jokes at her — 
jokes about as delicate as a kick from his charger. Whereas, 
Mrs. Bute consulted her in matters of taste or difficulty, ad- 
mired her poetry, and by a thousand acts of kindness and 
politeness, showed her appreciation of Briggs ; and if she 
made Firkin a twopenny-halfpenny present, accompanied it 
with so many compliments that the twopence-halfpenny was 
transmuted into gold in the heart of the grateful waiting-maid, 
who, besides, was looking forward quite contentedly to some 
prodigious benefit which must happen to heron the day when 
Mrs. Bute came into her fortune. 

The different conduct of these two people is pointed out 
respectfully to the attention of persons commencing the world. 
Praise everybody, I say to such ; never be squeamish, but 
speak out your compliment both point-blank in a man's face, 
and behind his back, when you know there is a reasonable 
chance of his hearing it again. Never lose a chance of say- 
ing a kind word. As Collingwood never saw a vacant place 
in his estate but he took an acorn out of his pocket and popped " 
it in, so deal with your compliments through life. An acorn 
costs nothing, but it may sprout into a prodigious bit of timber. 

In a word, during Rawdon Crawley's prosperity, he was 
only obeyed with sulky acquiescence ; when his disgrace came, 
there was nobody to help or pity him. Whereas, when Mrs. 
Bute took the command at Miss Crawley's house, the garri- 
son there were charmed to act under such a leader, expecting 
all sorts of promotion from her promises, her generosity, and 
her kind words. 

That he would consider himself beaten, after one defeat, 
and make no attempt to regain the position he had lost, Mrs. 
Bute Crawley never allowed herself to suppose. She knew 
Rebecca to be too clever and spirited and desperate a woman 



MISS CRAWLEY AT NURSE. 1 99 

to submit without a struggle, and felt that she must prepare 
for that combat, and be incessantly watchful against assault, 
or mine, or surprise. 

In the first place, though she held the town, was she sure 
of the principal inhabitant ? Would Miss Crawley herself hold 
out ; and had she not a secret longing to welcome back the 
ousted adversary ? The old lady liked Rawdon and Rebecca, 
who amused her. Mrs. Bute could not disguise from herself 
the fact that none of her party could so contribute to the 
pleasures of the town-bred lady. " My girls' singing, after 
that little odious governess's, I know is unbearable," the can- 
did rector's wife owned to herself. " She always used to go 
to sleep when Martha and Louisa played their duets. Jim's 
stiff college manners and poor dear Bute's talk about his dogs 
and horses always annoyed her. If I took her to the Rectory, 
she would grow angry with us all, and fly, I know she would ; 
and might fall into that horrid Rawdon's clutches again, and 
be the victim of that little viper of a Sharp. Meanwhile, it is 
clear to me that she is exceedingly unwell, and cannot move 
for some weeks, at any rate, during which we must think of 
some plan to protect her from the arts of those unprincipled 
people." 

In the very best of moments, if anybody told Miss Crawley 
that she was, or looked, ill, the trembling old lady sent off for 
her doctor ; and I dare say she was very unwell after the sud- 
den family event, which might serve to shake stronger nerves 
than hers. At least, Mrs. Bute thought it was her duty to 
inform the physician, and the apothecary, and the dame de 
compagnie, and the domestics, that Miss Crawley was in a 
most critical state, and that they were to act accordingly. She 
had the street laid knee-deep with straw, and the knocker 
put by with Mr. Bowls's plate. She insisted that the doctor 
should call twice a day, and deluged her patient with draughts 
every two hours. When anybody entered the room, she uttered 
a shshshsh so sibilant and ominous that it frightened the poor 
old lady in her bed, from which she could not look without 
seeing Mrs. Bute's beady eyes eagerly fixed on her, as the lat- 
ter sat steadfast in the arm-chair by the bedside. They seemed 
to lighten in the dark (for she kept the curtains closed) as she 
moved about the room on velvet paws like a cat. There Miss 
Crawley lay for days — ever so many days — Mrs.' Bute reading 
books of devotion to her ; for nights, long nights, during which 
she had to hear the watchman sing, the night-light sputter ; 
visited at midnight, the last thing, by the stealthy apothecary ; 
and then left to look at Mrs. Bute's twinkling eyes or the flicks 



200 VANITY FAIR. 

of yellow that the rushlight threw on the dreary, darkened 
ceiling. Hygeia herself would have fallen sick under such 
a regimen, and how much more this poor old nervous victim ? 
It has been said that when she was in health and good spir- 
its, this venerable inhabitant of Vanity Fair had as free no- 




tions about religion and morals as Monsieur de Voltaire him- 
self could desire, but when illness overtook her it was aggra- 
vated by the most dreadful terrors of death, and an utter 
cowardice took possession of the prostrate old sinner. 

Sick-bed homilies and pious reflections are, to be sure, out 
of place in mere story-books, and we are not going (after the 
fashion of some novelists of the present day) to cajole the pub- 
lic into a sermon, when it is only a comedy that the reader 
pays his money to witness. But, without preaching, the truth 
may surely be borne in mind that the bustle and triumph 
and laughter and gayety which Vanity Fair exhibits in public 
do not always pursue the performer into private life, and 
that the most dreary depression of spirits and dismal repent- 
ances sometimes overcome him. Recollection of the best- 
ordained banquets will scarcely cheer sick epicures. Remi- 
niscences of the most becoming dresses and brilliant ball- 



MISS CRA WLE Y AT NURSE. 201 

triumphs will go very little way to console faded beauties. 
Perhaps statesmen, at a particular period of existence, are not 
much gratified at thinking over the most triumphant divisions ; 
and the success or the pleasure of yesterday becomes of very 
small account when a certain (albeit uncertain) morrow is in 
view, about which all of us must some day or other be specu- 
lating. O brother wearers of motley ! Are there not mo- 
ments when one grows sick of grinning and tumbling, and 
the jingling of cap and bells ? This, dear friends and com- 
panions, is my amiable object — to walk with you through 
the fair, to examine the shops and the shows there ; and that 
we should all come home after the flare and the noise and the 
gayety, and be perfectly miserable in private. 

" If that poor man of mine had a head on his shoulders," 
Mrs. Bute Crawley thought to herself, " how useful he might 
be, under present circumstances, to this unhappy old lady ! 
He might make her repent of her shocking free-thinking ways ; 
he might urge her to do her duty, and cast off that odious rep- 
robate who has disgraced himself and his family ; and he might 
induce her to do justice to my dear girls and the two boys, who 
require and deserve, I am sure, every assistance which their 
relatives can give them." 

And, as the hatred of vice is always a progress toward vir- 
tue, Mrs. Bute Crawley endeavored to instil into her sister-in- 
law a proper abhorrence for all Rawdon Crawley's manifold 
sins ; of which his uncle's wife brought forward such a cata- 
logue as indeed would have served to condemn a whole regi- 
ment of young officers. If a man has committed wrong in life, 
I don't know any moralist more anxious to point his errors 
out to the world than his own relations ; so Mrs. Bute showed 
a perfect family interest and knowledge of Rawdon's history. 
She had all the particulars of that ugly quarrel with Captain 
Marker, in which Rawdon, wrong from the beginning, ended 
in shooting the captain. She knew how the unhappy Lord 
Dovedale, whose mamma had taken a house at Oxford, so that 
he might be educated there, and who had never touched a card 
in his life till he came to London, was perverted by Rawdon 
at the Cocoa-Tree, made helplessly tipsy by this abominable 
seducer and perverter of youth, and fleeced of four thousand 
pounds. She described with the most vivid minuteness the 
agonies of the country families whom he had ruined — the sons 
whom he had plunged into dishonor and poverty — the daugh- 
ters whom he had inveigled into perdition. She knew the poor 
tradesmen who were bankrupt by his extravagance — the mean 



202 VANITY FAIR. 

shifts and rogueries with which he had ministered to it — the 
astounding falsehoods by which he had imposed upon the most 
generous of aunts, and the ingratitude and ridicule by which 
he had repaid her sacrifices. She imparted these stories grad- 
ually to Miss Crawley ; gave her the whole benefit of them ; 
felt it to be herbounden duty as a Christian woman and moth- 
er of a family to do so ; had not the smallest remorse or com- 
punction for the victim whom her tongue was immolating ; 
nay, very likely thought her act was quite meritorious, and 
plumed herself upon her resolute manner of performing it. 
Yes, if a man's character is to be abused, say what you will, 
there's nobody like a relation to do the business. And one 
is bound to own, regarding this unfortunate wretch of a Raw- 
don Crawley, that the mere truth was enough to condemn him, 
and that all inventions of scandal were quite superfluous pains 
on his friends' part. 

Rebecca, too, being now a relative, came in for the full- 
est share of Mrs. Bute's kind inquiries. This indefatigable 
pursuer of truth (having given strict orders that the door was 
to be denied to all emissaries or letters from Rawdon), took 
Miss Crawley's carriage, and drove to her old friend Miss 
Pinkerton, at Minerva House, Chiswick Mall, to whom she 
announced the dreadful intelligence of Captain Rawdon's 
seduction by Miss Sharp, and from whom she got sundry 
strange particulars regarding the ex-governess's birth and 
early history. The friend of the lexicographer had plenty 
of information to give. Miss Jemima was made to fetch the 
drawing-master's receipts and letters. This one was from a 
sponging-house, that entreated an advance, another was full 
of gratitude for Rebecca's reception by the ladies of Chiswick, 
and the last document from the unlucky artist's pen was that 
in which, from his dying-bed, he recommended his orphan 
child to Miss Pinkerton's protection. There were juvenile 
letters and petitions from Rebecca, too, in the collection, 
imploring aid for her father or declaring her own gratitude. 
Perhaps in Vanity Fair there are no better satires than letters. 
Take a bundle of your dear friend's of ten years back — your 
dear friend whom you hate now. Look at a file of your sis- 
ter's ! how^ you clung to each other till you quarrelled about 
the twenty-pound legacy ! Get down the round-hand scrawls 
of your son who has half broken your heart with selfish undu- 
tifulness since ; or a parcel of your own, breathing endless 
ardor and love eternal, which were sent back by your mistress 
when she married the Nabob — your mistress for whom you 
now care no more than for Queen Elizabeth. Vows, love. 



MISS CRAWLEY AT NURSE. 203 

promises, confidences, gratitude, how queerly they read after 
a while ! There ought to be a law in Vanity Fair ordering 
the destruction of every written document (except receipted 
tradesmen's bills) after a certain brief and proper interval. 
Those quacks and misanthropes who advertise indelible Japan 
ink should be made to perish along with their wicked discov- 
eries. The best ink for Vanity Fair use would be one that 
faded utterly in a couple of days, and left the paper clean 
and blank, so that you might write on it to somebody else. 

From Miss Pinkerton's the indefatigable Mrs. Bute followed 
the track of Sharp and his daughter back to the lodgings in 
Greek Street which the defunct painter had occupied, and 
where portraits of the landlady in white satin, and of the hus- 
band in brass buttons, done by Sharp in lieu of a quarter's 
rent, still decorated the parlor walls. Mrs. Stokes was a 
communicative person, and quickly told all she knew about 
Mr. Sharp ; how dissolute and poor he was ; how good-natured 
and amusing ; how he was always hunted by bailiffs and 
duns ; how, to the landlady's horror, though she never could 
abide the woman, he did not marry his wife till a short time be- 
fore her death ; and what a queer little wild vixen his daugh- 
ter was ; how she kept them all laughing with her fun and 
mimicry ; how she used to fetch the gin from the public- 
house, and was known in all the studios in the quarter — in 
brief, Mrs. Bute got such a full account of her new niece's 
parentage, education, and behavior as would scarcely have 
pleased Rebecca, had the latter known that such inquiries 
were being made concerning her. 

Of all these industrious researches Miss Crawley had the full 
benefit. Mrs. Rawdon Crawley was the daughter of an opera- 
girl. She had danced herself. She had been a model to the 
painters. She was brought up as became her mother's daugh- 
ter. She drank gin with her father, etc., etc. It was a lost 
woman who was married to a lost man ; and the moral to be 
inferred from Mrs. Bute's tale was, that the knavery of the 
pair was irremediable, and that no properly-conducted person 
should ever notice them again. 

These were the materials which prudent Mrs. Bute gathered 
together in Park Lane, the provisions and ammunition as it 
were with which she fortified the house against the siege which 
she knew that Rawdon and his wife would lay to Miss Craw- 
ley. 

But if a fault may be found with her arrangements, it is 
this, that she was too eager ; she managed rather too well ; 



204 VANITY FAIR. 

undoubtedly she made Miss Crawley more ill than was neces- 
sary ; and though the old invalid succumbed to her author- 
ity, it was so harassing and severe that the victim would be 
inclined to escape at the very first chance which fell in her 
way. Managing women, the ornaments of their sex — women 
who order everything for everybody, and know so much bet- 
ter than any person concerned what is good f ^r their neigh- 
bors, don't sometimes speculate upon the possibility of a 
domestic revolt, or upon other extreme consequences resulting 
from their overstrained authority. 

Thus, for instance, Mrs. Bute, with the best intentions, no 
doubt, in the world, and wearing herself to death as she did 
by foregoing sleep, dinner, fresh air, for the sake of her invalid 
sister-in-law, carried her conviction of the old lady's illness 
so far that she almost managed her into her coffin. She 
pointed out her sacrifices and their results one day to the 
constant apothecary, Mr. Clump. 

" I am sure, my dear Mr. Clump," she said, " no efforts of 
mine have been wanting to restore our dear invalid, whom 
the ingratitude of her nephew has laid on the bed of sickness. 
/ never shrink from personal discomfort ; / never refuse to 
sacrifice myself." 

" Your devotion, it must be confessed, is admirable," Mr. 
Clump says, with a low bow ; " but — " 

" I have scarcely closed my eyes since my arrival ; I give 
up sleep, health, every comfort, to my sense of duty. When 
my poor James was in the small-pox, did I allow any hireling 
to nurse him ? No." 

" You did what became an excellent mother,my dear madam 
— the best of mothers ; but — " 

" As the mother of a family and the wife of an English cler- 
gyman, I humbly trust that my principles are good," Mrs. 
Bute said, with a happy solemnity of conviction ; " and as 
long as nature supports me, never, never, Mr. Clump, will I 
desert the post of duty. Others may bring that gray head 
with sorrow to the bed of sickness [here Mrs. Bute, waving 
her hand, pointed to one of old Miss Crawley's coffee-colored 
fronts, which was perched on a stand in the dressing-room], 
but / will never quit it. Ah, Mr. Clump ! I fear, I know, 
that that couch needs spiritual as well as medical consola- 
tion," 

" What I was going to observe, my dear madam," here the 
resolute Clump once more interposed with a bland air — " what 
I was going to observe when you gave utterance to sentiments 
which do you so much honor, was that I think you alarm 



MISS CRA WLE Y AT NURSE. 205 

yourself needlessly about our kind friend, and sacrifice your 
own health too prodigally in her favor." 

" I would lay down my life for my duty, or for any mem- 
ber of my husband's family," Mrs. Bute interposed. 

"Yes, madam, if need were; but we don't want Mrs. 
Bute Crawley to be a martyr," Clump said gallantly. " Dr. 
Squills and myself have both considered Miss Crawley's case 
with every anxiety and care, as you may suppose. We see 
her low-spirited and nervous ; family events have agitated 
her." 

" Her nephew will come to perdition," Mrs. Crawley cried. 

" Have agitated her ; and you arrived like a guardian angel, 
my dear madam, a positive guardian angel, 1 assure you, to 
soothe her under the pressure of calamity. But Dr. Squills 
and I were thinking that our amiable friend is not in such a 
state as renders confinement to her bed necessary. She is de- 
pressed, but this confinement perhaps adds to her depression. 
She should have change, fresh air, gayety — the most delight- 
ful remedies in the pharmacopoeia," Mr. Clump said, grinning 
and showing his handsome teeth. " Persuade her to rise, 
dear madam ; drag her from her couch and her low spirits ; 
insist upon her taking little drives. They will restore the roses, 
too, \.o your cheeks, if I may so speak to Mrs. Bute Crawley." 

' ' The sight of her horrid nephew casually in the park, where 
I am told the wretch drives with the brazen partner of his 
crimes," Mrs. Bute said (letting the cat of selfishness out of 
the bag of secrecy), " would cause her such a shock that we 
should have to bring her back to bed again. She must not 
go out, Mr. Clump. She shall not go out as long as I remain 
to watch over her. And as for my health, what matters it ? 
I give it cheerfully, sir. I sacrifice it at the altar of my 
duty." 

" Upon my word, madam," Mr. Clump now said bluntly, 
" I won't answer for her life if she remains locked up in that 
dark room. She is so nervous that we may lose her any day ; 
and if you wish Captain Crawley to be her heir, I warn you 
frankly, madam, that you are doing your very best to serve 
him." 

" Gracious mercy ! is her life in danger ?" Mrs. Bute cried. 
" Why, why, Mr. Clump, did you not inform me sooner ?" 

The night before, Mr. Clump and Dr. Squills had had a con- 
sultation (over a bottle of wine at the house of Sir Lapin War- 
ren, whose lady was about to present him with a thirteenth 
blessing) regarding Miss Crawely and her case. 

" What a little harpy that woman from Hampshire is, 



2o6 VANITY FAIR. 

Clump," Squills remarked, "that has seized upon old Tilly 
Crawley. Devilish good Madeira." 

" What a fool Rawdon Crawley has been," Clump replied, 
" to go and marry a governess ! There was something about 
the girl, too." 

" Green eyes, fair skin, pretty figure, famous frontal de- 
velopment," Squills remarked. " There is something about 
her ; and Crawley was a fool, Squills," 

" A d fool — always was, " the apothecary replied. 

** Of course, the old girl will fling him over," said the phy- 
sician, and, after a pause, added, " She'll cut up well, I sup- 
pose." 

" Cut up," says Clump with a grin ; " I wouldn't have her 
cut up for two hundred a year." 

" That Hampshire woman will kill her in two months. 
Clump, my boy, if she stops about her," Dr. Squills said. 
"Old woman — full feeder — nervous subject — palpitation of 
the heart — pressure on the brain— apoplexy — off she goes. 
Get her up. Clump, get her out, or I wouldn't give many 
weeks' purchase for your two hundred a year." And it was 
acting upon this hint that the worthy apothecary spoke with 
so much candor to Mrs. Bute Crawley. 

Having the old lady under her hand, in bed, with nobody 
near, Mrs. Bute had made more than one assault upon her, 
to induce her to alter her will. But Miss Crawley's usual 
terrors regarding death increased greatly when such dismal 
propositions were made to her, and Mrs. Bute saw that she 
must get her patient into cheerful spirits and health before 
she could hope to attain the pious object which she had in 
view. Whither to take her was the next puzzle. The only 
place where she is not likely to meet those odious Rawdons 
is at church, and that won't amuse her, Mrs. Bute justly felt. 
" We must go and visit our beautiful suburbs of London," 
she then thought. "I hear they are the most picturesque in 
the world ;" and so she had a sudden interest for Hampstead, 
and Hornsey, and found that Dulwich had great charms for 
her, and g^etting her victim into her carriage, drove her to 
those rustic spots, beguiling the little journeys with conversa- 
tions about Rawdon and his wife, and telling every story to 
the old lady which could add to her indignation against this 
pair of reprobates. 

Perhaps Mrs. Bute pulled the string unnecessarily tight. 
For though she worked up Miss Crawley to a proper dislike 
of her disobedient nephew, the invalid had a great hatred and 
secret terror of her victimizer, and panted to escape from her. 



MISS CRAWLEY AT NURSE. 207 

After a brief space, she rebelled against Highgate and Horn- 
sey utterly. She would go into the park. Mrs. Bute knew 
they would meet the- abominable Rawdon there, and she was 
right. One day in the ring,Rawdon's stanhope came in sight ; 
Rebecca was seated by him. In the enemy's equipage Miss 
Crawley occupied her usual place, with Mrs. Bute on her left, 
the poodle and Miss Briggs on the back seat. It was a ner 
vous moment, and Rebecca's heart beat quick as she recog- 
nized the carriage ; and as the two vehicles crossed each other 
in a line, she clasped her hands, and looked toward the spinster 
with a face of agonized attachment and devotion. Rawdon 
himself trembled, and his face grew purple behind his dyed 
moustachios. Only old Briggs was moved in the other car- 
riage, and cast her great eyes nervously toward her old 
friends. Miss Crawley's bonnet was resolutely turned tow- 
ard the Serpentine. Mrs. Bute happened to be in ecstasies 
with the poodle, and was calling him a little darling, and a 
sweet little zoggy, and a pretty pet. The carriages moved on, 
each in his line. 

" Done, by Jove," Rawdon said to his wife. 

" Try once more, Rawdon," Rebecca answered. *' Could 
not you lock your wheels into theirs, dearest ?" 

Rawdon had not the heart for that manoeuvre. When the 
carriages met again, he stood up in his stanhope ; he raised 
his hand ready to doff his hat ; he looked with all his eyes. 
But this time Miss Crawley's face was not turned away ; she 
and Mrs. Bute looked him full in the face, and cut their 
nephew pitilessly. He sank back in his seat with an oath, 
and striking out of the ring, dashed away desperately home- 
ward. 

It was a gallant and decided triumph for Mrs. Bute. But 
she felt the danger of many such meetings, as she saw the 
evident nervousness of Miss Crawley ; and she determined 
that it was most necessary for her dear friend's health that 
they should leave town for a while, and recommended Brigh- 
ton very strongly. 



208 



VANITY FAIR, 



CHAPTER XX. 



IN WHICH CAPTAIN DOBBIN ACTS AS THE MESSENGER OF HYMEN. 




ITHOUT knowing how, Cap- 
tain William Dobbin found 
himself the great promoter, 
arranger, and manager of the 
match between George Os- 
borne and Amelia. But for 
him it neverwould have taken 
place ; he could not but con- 
fess as much to himself, and 
smiled rather bitterly as he 
thought that he, of all men in 
the world, should be the per- 
son upon whom the care of 
this marriage had fallen. But 
though indeed the conduct- 
ing of this negotiation was 
about as painful a task as 
could be set to him, yet when 
he had a duty to perform, Captain Dobbin was accustomed to 
go through it without many words or much hesitation ; and 
having made up his mind completely that if Miss Sedley was 
balked of her husband she would die of the disappointment, 
he was determined to use all his best endeavors to keep her 
alive. 

I forbear to enter into minute particulars of the interview 
between George and Amelia, when the former was brought 
back to the feet (or should we venture to say the arms ?) of his 
young mistress by the intervention of his friend, honest Will- 
iam. A much harder heart than George's would have melted 
at the sight of that sweet face so sadly ravaged by grief and 
despair, and at the simple, tender accents in which she told 
her little broken-hearted story ; but as she did not faint when 
her mother, trembling, brought Osborne to her, and as she 
only gave relief to her overcharged grief by laying her head 
on her lover's shoulder and there weeping for a while the most 



CAPr. DOBBIN ACTS AS MESSENGER OF HYMEN. 209 

tender, copious, and refreshing tears, old Mrs. Sedley, too, 
greatly relieved, thought it was best to leave the young per- 
sons to themselves, and so quitted Emmy crying over George's 
hand, and kissing it humbly, as if he were her supreme chief 
and master, and as if she were quite a guilty and unworthy 
person, needing every favor and grace from him. 

This prostration and sweet, unrepining obedience exqui- 
sitely touched and flattered George Osborne. He saw a slave 
before him in that simple, yielding, faithful creature, and his 
soul within him thrilled secretly somehow at the knowledge 
of his power. He would be generous-minded, sultan as he 
was, and raise up this kneeling Esther and make a queen of 
her ; besides her sadness and beauty touched him as much as 
her submission, and so he cheered her, and raised her up, 
and forgave her, so to speak. All her hopes and feelings, 
which were dying and withering, this her sun having been 
removed from her, bloomed again and at once, its light being 
restored. You would scarcely have recognized the beaming 
little face upon Amelia's pillow that night as the one that was 
laid there the night before, so wan, so lifeless, so careless of all 
round about. The honest Irish maid-servant, delighted with 
the change, asked leave to kiss the face that had grown all of 
a sudden so rosy. Amelia put her arms round the girl's neck 
and kissed her with all her heart, like a child. She was little 
more. She had that night a sweet, refreshing sleep, like one 
— and what a spring of inexpressible happiness as she woke 
in the morning sunshine ! 

" He will be here again to-day," Amelia thought. " He is 
the greatest and best of men." And the fact is, that George 
thought he was one of the generousest creatures alive, and 
that he was making a tremendous sacrifice in marrying this 
young creature. 

While she and Osborne were having their delightful tete-a- 
tete above stairs, old Mrs. Sedley and Captain Dobbin were 
conversing below upon the state of the affairs, and the chances 
and future arrangements of the young people. Mrs. Sedley 
having brought the two lovers together, and left them embrac- 
ing each other with all their might, like a true woman, was of 
opinion that no power on earth would induce Mr. Sedley to 
consent to the match between his daughter and the son of a 
man who had so shamefully, wickedly, and monstrously treat- 
ed him. And she told a long story about happier days and 
their earlier splendors, when Osborne lived in a very humble 
way in the New Road, and his wife was too glad to receive some 
of Jos's little baby things, with which Mrs. Sedley accommo- 



2IO VANITY FAIR. 

dated her at the birth of one of Osborne's own children. The 
fiendish ingratitude of that man, she was sure, had broken 
Mr. S.'s heart ; and as for a marriage, he would never, never, 
never, nevej' consent. 

"They must run away together, ma'am," Dobbin said, 
laughing, " and follow the example of Captain Rawdon Craw- 
ley and Miss Emmy's friend the little governess." Was it 
possible ? Well, she never ! Mrs. Sedley was all excitement 
about this news. She wished that Blenkinsop were here to 
hear it ; Blenkinsop always mistrusted that Miss Sharp. What 
an escape Jos had had ! and she described the already well- 
known love-passages between Rebecca and the Collector of 
Boggley Wollah. 

It was not, however, Mr. Sedley's wrath which Dobbin 
feared so much as that of the other parent concerned, and he 
owned that he had a very considerable doubt and anxiety re- 
specting the behavior of the black-browed old tyrant of a 
Russia merchant in Russell Square. He has forbidden the 
match peremptorily, Dobbin thought. He knew what a sav- 
age, determined man Osborne was, and how he stuck by his 
word. 'The only chance George has of reconcilement," 
argued his friend, " is by distinguishing himself in the com- 
ing campaign. If he dies, they both go together. If he fails 
in distinction — what then ? He has some money from his 
mother, I have heard — enough to purchase his majority — or 
he must sell out and go and dig in Canada, or rough it in a 
cottage in the country." With such a partner Dobbin thought 
he would not mind Siberia — and, strange to say, this, absurd 
and utterly imprudent young fellow never for a moment con- 
sidered that the want of means to keep a nice carriage and 
horses, and of an income which should enable its possessors 
to entertain their friends genteelly, ought to operate as bars to 
the union of George and Miss Sedley. 

It was these weighty considerations which made him think, 
too, that the marriage should take place as quickly as possible. 
Was he anxious himself, I wonder, to have it over ? — as people, 
when death has occurred, like to press forward the funeral, 
or when a parting is resolved upon, hasten it. It is certain 
that Mr. Dobbin, having taken the matter in hand, was most 
extraordinarily eager in the conduct of it. He urged on 
George the necessity of immediate action ; he showed the 
chances of reconciliation with his father, which a favorable 
mention of his name in the Gazette must bring about. If need 
were he would go himself and brave both the fathers in the 
business. At all events, he besought George to go through 



CAP T. DOBBIN A CTS A S MESSENGER OF HYMEN. 2 1 1 

with it before the orders came, which everybody expected, fot 
the departure of the regiment from England on foreign ser- 
vice. 

Bent upon these hymeneal projects, and with the applause 
and consent of Mrs. Sedley, who did not care to break the 
matter personally to her husband, Mr. Dobbin went to seek 
John Sedley at his house of call in the City, the Tapioca 
Coffee-house, where, since his own offices were shut up, and 
fate had overtaken him, the poor broken-down old gentleman 
used to betake himself daily, and write letters and receive 
them, and tie them up into mysterious bundles, several of which 
he carried in the flaps of his coat. I don't know anything 
more dismal than that business and bustle and mystery of a 
ruined man ; those letters from the wealthy which he shows 
you ; those worn, greasy documents promising support and 
offering condolence which he places wistfully before you, and 
on which he builds his hopes of restoration and future fortune. 
My beloved reader has no doubt in the course of his experience 
been waylaid by many such a luckless companion. He takes 
you into the corner ; he has his bundle of papers out of his 
gaping coat-pocket, and the tape off, and the string in his 
mouth, and the favorite letters selected and laid before you ; 
and who does not know the sad, eager, half-crazy look which 
he fixes on you with his hopeless eyes ? 

Changed into a man of this sort, Dobbin found the once 
florid, jovial, and prosperous John Sedley. His coat, that used 
to be so glossy and trim, was white at the seams, and the but- 
tons showed the copper. His face had fallen in, and was un- 
shaven ; his frill and neck-cloth hung limp under his bagging 
waistcoat. When he used to treat the boys in old days at a 
coffee-house, he would shout and laugh louder than anybody 
there, and have all the waiters skipping round him ; it was 
quite painful to see how humble and civil he was to John of 
the Tapioca, a blear-eyed old attendant in dingy stockings and 
cracked pumps, whose business it was to serve glasses of wa- 
fers, and bumpers of ink in pewter, and slices of paper to the 
frequenters of this dreary house of entertainment, where noth- 
ing else seemed to be consumed. As for William Dobbin, 
whom he had tipped repeatedly in his youth, and who had been 
the old gentleman's butt on a thousand occasions, old Sedley 
gave his hand to him in a very hesitating, humble manner now, 
and called him " Sir." A feeling of shame and remorse took 
possession of William Dobbin as the broken old man so re- 
ceived and addressed him, as if he himself had been somehow 
guilty of the misfortunes which had brought Sedley so low. 



212 VANITY FAIR. 

" I am very glad to see you, Captain Dobbin, sir," says he, 
after a skulking look or two at his visitor (whose lanky figure 
and military appearance caused some excitement likewise to 
twinkle in the blear eyes of the waiter in the cracked danc- 
ing-pumps, and awakened the old lady in black who dozed 
among the mouldy old coffee-cups in the bar). '* How is the 
worthy alderman, and my lady, your excellent mother, sir?" 
He looked round at the waiter as he said "my lady," as 
much as to say, " Hark ye, John, I have friends still, as per 
sons of rank and reputation, too." "Are you come to do 
anything in my way, sir ? My young friends Dale and Spig- 
got do all my business for me now, until my new offices are 
ready ; for I'm only here temporarily, you know, captain. 
What can we do for you, sir ? Will you like to take anything?' ' 

Dobbin, with a great deal of hesitation and stuttering, pro- 
tested that he was not in the least hungry or thirsty ; that he 
had no business to transact ; that he only came to ask if Mr. 
Sedley was well, and to shake hands with an old friend ; and 
he added, with a desperate perversion of truth, " My mother 
is very well — that is, she's been very unwell, and is only wait- 
ing for the first fine day to go out and call upon Mrs. Sed- 
ley. How is Mrs. Sedley, sir ? I hope she's quite well." And 
here he paused, reflecting on his own consummate hypocrisy ; 
for the day was as fine, and the sunshii.e as bright as it ever is 
in Coffin Court, where the Tapioca Coffee-house is situated ; 
and Mr. Dobbin remembered that he had seen Mrs. Sedley 
himself only an hour before, having driven Osborne down to 
Fulham in his gig, and left him there tete-d-tete with Miss 
Amelia. 

My wife will be very happy to see her ladyship," Sedley 
replied, pulling out his papers. "I've a very kind letter 
here from your father, sir, and beg my respectful compliments 
to him. Lady D. will find us in rather a smaller house than 
we were accustomed to receive our friends in, but it's snug, 
and the change of air does good to my daughter, who was suf- 
fering in town rather — you remember little Emily, sir? — yes, 
suffering a good deal." The old gentleman's eyes were wan- 
dering as he spoke, and he was thinking of something else, 
as he sat thrumming on his papers and fumbling at the worn 
red tape. 

"You're a military man," he went on. " I ask you, Bill 
Dobbin, could any man ever have speculated upon the return 
of that Corsican scoundrel from Elba ? When the allied sov- 
ereigns were here last year, and we gave 'em that dinner in 
the City, sir, and we saw the Temple of Concord, and the 



CAPT. DOBBIN ACTS AS MESSENGER OF HYMEN. 213 

fireworks, and the Chinese bridge in St. James's Park, could 
any sensible man suppose that peace wasn't really concluded, 
after we'd actually sung Te Deum for it, sir ? I ask you, 
William, could I suppose that the Emperor of Austria was a 
damned traitor — a traitor, and nothing more ? I don't mince 
words — a double-faced, infernal traitor and schemer, who 
meant to have his son-in-law back all along. And I say the 
escape of Boney from Elba was a damned imposition and plot, 
sir, in which half the powers of Europe were concerned, to 
bring the funds down, and to ruin this country. That's why 
I'm here, William. That's why my name's in the Ga- 
zette. Why, sir? because I trusted the Emperor of Russia 
and the Prince Regent. Look here. Look at my papers. 
Look what the funds were on the ist of March — what the 
French fives were when I bought for the account. And what 
they're at now. There was collusion, sir, or that villain 
never would have escaped. Where was the English Com- 
missioner who allowed him to get, away ? He ought to be 
shot, sir — brought to a court-martial, and shot, by Jove !" 

" We're going to hunt Boney out, sir," Dobbin said, rather 
alarmed at the fury of the old man, the veins of whose fore- 
head began to swell, and who sat drumming his papers with 
his clinched fist. " We are going to hunt him out, sir — the 
Duke's in Belgium already, and we expect marching orders 
every day." 

" Give him no quarter. Bring back the villain's head, 
sir. Shoot the coward down, sir," Sedley roared. " I'd en- 
list myself, by • ; but I'm a broken old man — ruined by 

that damned scoundrel, and by a parcel of swindling thieves 
in this country whom I made, sir, and who are rolling in their 
carriages now," he added, with a break in his voice. 

Dobbin was not a little affected by the sight of this once 
kind old friend, crazed almost with misfortune and raving with 
senile anger. Pity the fallen gentleman, you to whom money 
and fair repute are the chiefest good ; and so, surely, are they 
in Vanity Fair. 

" Yes," he continued, " there are some vipers that you 
warm, and they sting you afterward. There are some beg- 
gars that you put on horseback, and they are the first to ride 
you down. You know whom I mean, William Dobbin, my 
boy. I mean a purse-proud villain in Russell Square, whom 
I knew without a shilling, and whom I pray and hope to see 
a beggar, as he was when I befriended him." 

"I have heard something of this, sir, from my friend 
George," Dobbin said, anxious to come to his point. " The 



2 14 VANITY FAIR. 

quarrel between you and his father has cut him up a great 
deal, sir. Indeed, I'm the bearer of a message from him." 

" Oh, //z^/'.y your errand, is it?" cried the old man, jumping 
up. "What! perhaps he condoles with me, does he? Very- 
kind of him, the stiff-backed prig, with his dandified airs and 
West-end swagger. He's hankering about my house, is he,, 
still ? If my son had the courage of a man, he'd shoot him. 
He's as big a villain as his father. I won't have his name 
mentioned in my house. I curse the day that ever I let him 
into it ; and I'd rather see my daughter dead at my feet than 
married to him." 

" His father's harshness is not George's fault, sir. Your 
daughter's love for him is as much your doing as his. Who 
are you, that you are to play with two young people's af- 
fections and break their hearts at your will ?" 

" Recollect it's not his father that breaks the match 
off," old Sedley cried out. " It's I that forbid it. That family 
and mine are separated forever. I'm fallen low, but not so low 
as that ; no, no. And so you may tell the whole race — son^ 
and father, and sisters, and all." 

" It's my belief, sir, that you have not the power or the 
right to separate those two," Dobbin answered in a low 
voice; "and that if you don't give your daughter your 
consent, it will be her duty to marry without it. There's no 
reason she should die or live miserably because you are 
wrong-headed. To my thinking she's just as much married 
as if the banns had been read in all the churches in Lon- 
don. And what better answer can there be to Osborne's 
charges against you, as charges there are, than that his son 
claims to enter your family and marry your daughter !" 

A light of something like satisfaction seemed to break over 
old Sedley as this point was put to him ; but he still persisted 
that with his consent the marriage between Amelia and George 
should never take place. 

'■ We must do it without," Dobbin said, smiling, and told 
Mr. Sedley, as he had told Mrs. Sedley on the day before, 
the story of Rebecca's elopement with Captain Crawley. It 
evidently amused the old gentleman. " You're terrible fel- 
lows, you captains," said he, tying up his papers ; and his 
face wore something like a smile upon it, to the astonishment 
of the blear-eyed waiter who now entered, and had never seen 
such an expression upon Sedley's countenance since he had 
used the dismal coffee-house. 

The idea of hitting his enemy Osborne such a blow 
soothed, perhaps, the old gentleman ; and their colloquy 
presently ending, he and Dobbin parted pretty good friends. 



CAPT. D OB BIN ACTS AS ME SSENGER OF II YMEN, 2 1 5 

" My sisters say she has diamonds as big as pigeons' eggs," 
George said, laughing. " How they must set off her com- 
plexion ! A perfect illumination it must be when her jewels 
are on her neck. Her jet-black hair is as curly as Sambo's. I 
dare say she wore a nose-ring when she went to court ; and 
with a plume of feathers in her top-knot she would look a per- 
fect Belle Sauvage." 

George, in conversation with Amelia, was rallying the ap- 
pearance of a young lady of whom his father and sisters had 
lately made the acquaintance, and who was an object of vast 
respect to the Russell Square family. She was reported to 
have I don't know how many plantations in the West Indies, a 



deal of money in the funds, and three stars to her name in 
the East India stockholders' list. She had a mansion in Sur- 
rey, and a house in Portland Place. The name of the rich 
West India heiress had been mentioned with applause in 
the Morning Post. Mrs. Haggistoun, Colonel Haggistoun's 
widow, her relative, " chaperoned " her, and kept her house. 
She was just from school, where she had completed her edu- 
cation, and George and his sisters had met her at an even- 
ing party at old Hulker's house, Devonshire Place (Hulker, 
Bullock & Co. were long the correspondents of her house in 
the West Indies), and the girls had made the most cordial 
advances to her, which the heiress had received with great 
good humor. An orphan in her position — with her money — 
so interesting ! the Misses Osborne said. They were full of 



2l6 



VANITY FAIR. 



their new friend when they returned from the Hulker ball 
to Miss Wirt, their companion ; they had made arrangements 
for continually meeting, and had the carriage and drove to 
see her the very next day. Mrs. Haggistoun, Colonel Hag- 
gistoun's widow, a relation of Lord Binkie, and always talk- 
ing of him, struck the dear, unsophisticated girls as rather 
haughty, and too much inclined to talk about her relations ; 
but Rhoda was everything they could wish — the frankest, 
kindest, most agreeable creature — wanting a little polish, but 
so good-natured. The girls Christian-named each other at once. 

"You should have seen her dress for court, Emmy," Os- 
borne cried, laughing. " She came to my sisters to show it 
off, before she was presented in state by my Lady Binkie, the 
Haggistoun's kinswoman. She's related to every one, that 
Haggistoun. Her diamonds blazed out like Vauxhall on the 
night we were there. (Do you remember Vauxhall, Emmy, 
and Jos singing to his dearest diddle-diddle-darling ?) Dia- 
monds and mahogany, my dear ! think what an advantageous 
contrast — and the white feathers in her hair — I mean in her 
wool. She had ear-rings like chandeliers ; you might have 
lighted 'em up, by Jove — and a yellow satin train that streeled 
after her like the tail of a comet." 

"How old is she?" asked Emmy, to w^hom George was 
rattling away regarding this dark paragon, on the morning 
of their reunion — rattling away as no other man in the world 
surely could. 

" Why the Black Princess, though she has only just left 
school, must be two or three and twenty. And you should 
see the hand she writes ! Mrs. Colonel Haggistoun usually 
writes her letters, but in a moment of confidence she put pen 
to paper for my sisters ; she spelled satin satting, and Saint 
James's, Saint Jams." 

" Why, surely it must be Miss Swartz, the parlor boarder," 
Emmy said, remembering that good-natured young mulatto 
girl, who had been so hysterically affected when Amelia left 
Miss Pinkerton's academy. 

" The very name," George said. " Her father was a Ger- 
man Jew — a slave-owner, they say — connected with the Can- 
nibal Islands in some way or other. He died last year, and 
Miss Pinkerton has finished her education. She can play 
two pieces on the piano ; she knows three songs ; she can write 
when Mrs. Haggistoun is hy to spell for her ; and Jane and 
Maria already have got to love her as a sister." 

" I wish they would have loved me," said Emmy wistfully, 
" They were always very cold to me." 



CA P T. BOB BIX A CTS A S MESSEXGER OF HYMEX. 2 1 7 

" My dear child, they would have loved you if you had had 
two hundred thousand pounds," George replied. "That is 
the way in which they have been brought up. Ours is a 
ready-money society. We live among bankers and City 
big-wigSj and be hanged to them, and every man, as he talks 
to you, is jingling his guineas in his pocket. There is that 
jackass Fred Bullock is going to marry ]Maria — there's Gold- 
more, the East India director — there's Dipley, in the tallow 
trade — our trade," George said, with an uneasy laugh and a 
blush. " Curse the whole pack of money-grubbing vulga- 
rians ! I fall asleep at their great, heavy dinners. I feel 
ashamed in my father's great, stupid parties. I've been ac- 
customed to live with gentlemen, and men of the world 
and fashion, Emmy, not with a parcel of turtle-fed trades- 
men. Dear little woman, you are the only person of our set 
who ever looked, or thought, or spoke like a lady ; and you 
do it because you're an angel, and can't help it. Don't re- 
monstrate. You are the only lady. Didn't Miss Crawley 
remark it, who has lived in the best company in Europe ? 
And as for Crawley, of the Life Guards, hang it, he's a fine 
fellow, and I like him for marrying the girl he had chosen." 

Amelia admired Mr. Crawley very much, too, for this, and 
trusted Rebecca would be happy with him, and hoped (with a 
laugh) Jos would be consoled. And so the pair went on 
prattling, as in quite early days. Amelia's confidence being 
perfectly restored to her, though she expressed a great deal 
of pretty jealousy about Miss Swartz, and professed to be 
dreadfully frightened — like a hypocrite as she was — lest 
George should forget her for the heiress and her money and 
her estates in St. Kitt's. But the fact is, she was a great 
deal too happy to have fears or doubts or misgivings of any 
sort ; and having George at her side again, was not afraid 
of any heiress or beauty, or indeed of any sort of danger. 

When Captain Dobbin came back in the afternoon to these 
people — which he did with a great deal of sympathy for 
them — it did his heart good to see how Amelia had grown 
young again — how she laughed, and chirped, and sang famil- 
iar old songs at the piano, which were only interrupted bv 
the bell from without proclaiming Mr. Sedley's return from 
the City, before whom George received a signal to retreat. 

Beyond the first smile of recognition — and even that was 
a hypocrisy, for she thought his arrival rather provoking — 
Miss Sedley did not once notice Dobbin during his visit. 
But he was content, so that he saw her happy, and thank- 
ful to have been the means of making her so. 



si8 



VANITY FAIR. 



CHAPTER XXI. 

A QUARREL ABOUT AN HEIRESS. 



OVE may be felt for any young 
lady endowed with such qual- 
ities as Miss Swartz pos- 
sessed ; and a great dream of 
ambition entered into old Mr. 
Osborne's soul, which she 
was to realize. He encour- 
aged, with the utmost en- 
thusiasm and friendliness, his 
daughters' amiable attach- 
ment to the young heiress, 
and protested that it gave him 
the sincerest pleasure as a 
father to see the love of his 
girls so well disposed. 

"You won't find," he 
would say to Miss Rhoda, 
" that splendor and rank to 
which you are accustomed at the West End, my dear miss, at 
our humble mansion in Russell Square. My daughters are 
plain, disinterested girls, but their hearts are in the right 
place, and they've conceived an attachment for you which does 
them honor — I say, which does them honor. I'm a plain, 
simple, humble British merchant — an honest one, as my 
respected friends Hulker and Bullock will vouch, who were the 
correspondents of your late lamented father. You'll find us a 
united, simple, happy, and I think I may say respected fam- 
ily — a plain table, a plain people, but a warm welcome, my 
dear Miss Rhoda — Rhoda, let me say, for my heart warms to 
you, it does really. I'm a frank man, and I like you. A glass 
of champagne ! Hicks, champagne to Miss Swartz." 

There is little doubt that old Osborne believed all he said, 
and that the girls were quite earnest in their protestations of 
affection for Miss Swartz. People in Vanity Fair fasten on to 
rich folks quite naturally. If the simplest people are disposed 




A QUARREL ABOUT AN HEIRESS. 219 

to look not a little kindly on great prosperity (for I defy any 
member of the British public to say that the notion of wealth 
has not something awful and pleasing to him ; and you, if you 
are told that the man next you at dinner has got half a mill- 
ion, not to look at him with a certain interest) — if the simple 
look benevolently on money, how much more do your old 
worldlings regard it ! Their affections rush out to meet and 
welcome money. Their kind sentiments awaken spontaneously 
toward the interesting possessors of it. I know some respect- 
able people who don't consider themselves at liberty to in- 
dulge in friendship for any individual who has not a certain 
competency, or place in society. They give a loose to their 
feelings on proper occasions. And the proof is that the major 
part of the Osborne family, who had not, in fifteen years, 
been able to get up a hearty regard for Amelia Sedley, became 
as fond of Miss Swartz in the course of a single evening as 
the most romantic advocate of friendship at first sight could 
desire. 

What a match for George she'd be (the sister and Miss 
Wirt agreed), and how much better than that insignificant 
little Amelia ! Such a dashing young fellow as he is, with his 
good looks, rank, and accomplishments, would be the very 
husband for her. Visions of balls in Portland Place, presen- 
tations at court, and introductions to half the peerage filled 
the minds of the young ladies, who talked of nothing but 
George and his grand acquaintances to their beloved new 
friend. 

Old Osborne thought she would be a great match, too, 
for his son. He should leave the army ; he should go into 
Parliament ; he should cut a figure in the fashion and in the 
state. His blood boiled with honest British exultation as he 
saw the name of Osborne ennobled in the person of his son, 
and thought that he might be the progenitor of a glorious line 
of baronets. He worked in the City and on 'Change, until 
he knew everything relating to the fortune of the heiress, how 
her money was placed, and where her estates lay. Young 
Fred Bullock, one of his chief informants, would have liked 
to make a bid for her himself (it was so the young banker 
expressed it), only he was booked to Maria Osborne. But 
not being able to secure her as a wife, the disinterested Fred 
quite approved of her as a sister-in-law. " Let George cut 
in directly and win her," was his advice. " Strike while the 
iron's hot, you know— while she's fresh to the town ; in a 

few weeks some d fellow from the West End will come in 

with a title and a rotten rent-roll and cut all us City men out, 



2 20 VANITY FAIR. 

as Lord Fitzrufus did last year with Miss Grogram, who was 
actually engaged to Fodder, of Fodder & Brown's. The sooner 
it is done the better, Mr. Osborne ; them's my sentiments," 
the wa_2: said ; though, when Osborne had left the bank par- 
lor, Mr. Bullock remembered Amelia, and what a pretty girl 
she was, and how attached to George Osborne, and he gave 
up at least ten seconds of his valuable time to regretting the 
misfortune which had befallen that unlucky young woman. 

While thus George Osborne's good feelings, and his good 
friend and genius, Dobbin, were carrying back the truant to 
Amelia's feet, George's parent and sisters were arranging 
this splendid match for him, which they never dreamed he 
would resist. 

When the elder Osborne gave what he called ' ' a hint, ' ' there 
was no possibility for the most obtuse to mistake his mean- 
ing. He called kicking a footman down-stairs a hint to the 
latter to leave his service. With his usual frankness and del- 
icacy, he told Mrs. Haggistoun that he would give her a check 
for five thousand pounds on the day his son was married to 
her ward, and called that proposal a hint, and considered it 
a very dexterous piece of diplomacy. He gave George finally 
such another hint regarding the heiress, and ordered him to 
marry her out of hand, as he would have ordered his butler 
to draw a cork, or his clerk to write a letter. 

This imperative hint disturbed George a good deal. He 
was in the very first enthusiasm and delight of his second 
courtship of Amelia, which was inexpressibly sweet to him. 
The contrast of her manners and appearance with those of the 
heiress made the idea of a union with the latter appear 
doubly ludicrous and odious. Carriages and opera-boxes, 
thought he ; fancy being seen in them by the side of such 
a mahogany charmer as that ! Add to all that the junior 
Osborne was quite as obstinate as the senior ; when he 
wanted a thing, quite as firm in his resolution to get it ; and 
quite as violent when angered, as his father in his most stern 
moments. 

On the first day when his father formally gave him the hint 
that he was to place his affections at Miss Swartz's feet, George 
temporized with the old gentleman. " You should have 
thought of the matter sooner, sir," he said. " It can't be 
done now, when we're expecting every day to go on foreign 
service. Wait till my return, if I do return ;" and then he 
represented that the time when the regiment was daily ex- 
pecting to quit England was exceedingly ill-chosen ; that the 
few days or weeks during which they were still to remain at 




Miss SWARTZ REHEARSING FOR THE Dra WING-ROOM- 



A QUARREL ABOUT AN HEIRESS. . 221. 

home must be devoted to business and not to love-making; 
time enough for that when he came home with his major- 
ity ; " for I promise you," said he, with a satisfied air, " that 
one way or other you shall read the name of George Osborne 
in the Gazette."" 

The father's reply was founded upon the information which 
he had got in the City ; that the West End chaps would in- 
fallibly catch hold of the heiress if any delay took place ; 
that if he didn't marry Miss S., he might at least have an 
engagement in writing, to come into effect when he returned 
to England ; and that a man who could get ten thousand a 
year by staying at home, was a fool to risk his life abroad. 

" So that you would have me shown up as a coward, sir, 
and our name dishonored for the sake of Miss Swartz's 
money," George interposed. 

This remark staggered the old gentleman, but as he had 
to reply to it, and as his mind was nevertheless made up, he 
said, " You will dine here to-morrow, sir ; and every day that 
Miss Swartz comes, you will be here to pay your respects to 
her. If you want for money, call upon Mr. Chopper." Thus 
a new obstacle was in George's way, to interfere with his 
plans regarding Amelia, and about which he and Dobbin 
had more than one confidential consultation. His friend's 
opinion respecting the line of conduct which he ought to 
pursue, we know already. And as for Osborne, when he was 
once bent on a thing, a fresh obstacle or two only rendered 
him the more resolute. 

The dark object of the conspiracy into which the chiefs of 
the Osborne family had entered was quite ignorant of all their 
plans regarding her (which, strange to say, her friend and 
chaperon did not divulge), and, taking all the young ladies' 
iiattery for genuine sentiment, and being, as we have before 
had occasion to show, of a very warm and impetuous nature, 
responded to their affection with quite a tropical ardor. And 
if the truth may be told, I dare say that she too had some 
selfish attraction in the Russell Square house, and, in a word, 
thought George Osborne a very nice young man. His whis- 
kers had made an impression upon her, on the very first night 
she beheld them at the ball at Messrs. Hulkers' ; and, as we 
know, she was not the first woman who had been charmed 
by them. George had an air at once swaggering and melan- 
choly, languid and fierce. He looked like a man who had 
passions, secrets, and private harrowing griefs and adven- 
tures. His voice was rich and deep. He would say it was a 



2 22 VANITY FAIR. 

warm evening or ask his partner to take an ice with a to^^i 
as sad and confidential as if he were breaking her mother's 
death to her, or preluding a declaration of love. He trampled 
over all the young bucks of his father's circle, and was the 
hero among those third-rate men. Some few sneered at him 
and hated him. Some, like Dobbin, fanatically admired him. 
And his whiskers had begun to do their work, and to curl 
themselves round the affections of Miss Swartz. 

Whenever there was a chance of meeting him in Russell 
Square, that simple and good-natured young woman was quite 
in a flurry to see her dear Misses Osborne. She went to great 
expenses in new gowns, and bracelets, and bonnets, and in 
prodigious feathers. She adorned her person with her utmost 
skill to please the conqueror, and exhibited all her simple 
accomplishments to win his favor. The girls would ask her, 
with the greatest gravity, for a little music, and she would 
sing her three songs and play her two pieces as often as e^er 
they asked, and with an always increasing pleasure to herself. 
During these delectable entertainments, Miss Wirt and the 
chaperon sat by, and conned over the peerage, and talked 
about the nobility. 

The day after George had his hint from his father, and a 
short time before the hour of dinner, he was lolling upon a 
sofa in the drawing-room in a very becoming and perfectly 
natural attitude of melancholy. He had been, at his father's 
request, to Mr. Chopper in the City (the old gentleman, 
though he gave great sums to his son, would never specify 
any fixed allowance for him, and rewarded him only as he 
was in the humor). He had then been to pass three hours 
with Amelia, his dear little Amelia, at Fulham ; and he came 
home to find his sisters spread in starched muslin in the 
drawing-room., the dowagers cackling in the background, and 
honest Swartz in her favorite amber-colored satin, with tur- 
quoise bracelets, countless rings, flowers, feathers, and all sorts 
of tags and gimcracks, about as elegantly decorated as a she 
chimney-sweep on May-day. 

The girls, after vain attempts to engage him in conversation, 
talked about fashions and the last drawing-room until he was 
perfectly sick of their chatter. He contrasted their behavior 
with little Emmy's — their shrill voices with her tender, ring- 
ing tones ; their attitudes and their elbows, and their starch, 
with her humble, soft movements and modest graces. Poor 
Swartz was seated in a place where Emmy had been accus- 
tomed to sit. Her bejewelled hands lay sprawling in her 
amber-satin lap. Her tags and earrings twinkled and her big 



>A QUARREL ABOUT AN HEIRESS. 



223 



eyes rolled about. She was doing nothing with perfect con- 
tentment, and thinking herself charming. Anything so be- 
coming, as the satin the sisters had never seen, 

" Damme," George said to a confidential friend, " she 
looked like a China doll, which has nothing to do all day but 
to grin and wag its head. By Jove, Will, it was all I could do 
to prevent myself from throwing the sofa-cushion at her." 
He restrained that exhibition of sentiment, however. 

The sisters began to play the " Battle of Prague." " Stop 

that d thing," George howled out in a fury from the sofa. 

" It makes me mad. You play us something. Miss Swartz, 
do. Sing something, anything but the ' Battle of Prague.' " 




*' Shall I sing ' Blue-Eyed Mary,' or the air from the Cabi- 
net ?" Miss Swartz asked. 

" That sweet thing from the Cabinet," the sisters said. 
" We've had that," replied the misanthrope on the sofa. 



2 24 VANI7Y FAIR, 

"I can sing * Fluvy du Tajy,' " Swartz said, in a meek 
voice, " if I had the words." It was the last of the worthy 
young woman's collection. 

" Oh, ' Fleuve du Tage,' " Miss Maria cried ; "we have 
the song, " and went off to fetch the book in which it was. 

Now it happened that this song, then in the height of the 
fashion, had been given to the young ladies by a young friend 
of theirs, whose name was on the title, and Miss Swartz, 
having concluded the ditty with George's applause (for he 
remembered that it was a favorite of Amelia's), was hoping 
for an encore perhaps, and fiddling with the leaves of the 
music, when her eye fell upon the title, and she saw " Amelia 
Sedley" written in the corner. 

" Lor !" cried Miss Swartz, spinning swiftly round on the 
music-stool, "is it ;;(y Amelia ? Amelia that was at Miss P.'s, 
at Hammersmith ? I know it is. It's her, and — tell me about 
her— where is she ?" 

" Don't mention her," Miss Maria Osborne said hastily. 
" Her family has disgraced itself. Her father cheated papa, 
and as for her, she is never to be mentioned here.'' This 
was Miss Maria's return for George's rudeness about the 
" Battle of Prague." 

' ' Are you a friend of Amelia's ?' ' George said, bouncing up. 
" God bless you for it. Miss Swartz. Don't believe what the 
girls say. She's not to blame at any rate. She's the best — " 

" You know you're not to speak about her, George," cried 
Jane. " Papa forbids it." 

" Who's to prevent me ?" George cried out. " I will speak 
of her. I say she's the best, the kindest, the gentlest, the 
sweetest girl in England ; and that, bankrupt or no, my sis- 
ters are not fit to hold candles to her. If you like her, go 
and see her, Miss Swartz ; she wants friends now, and I say, 
God bless everybody who befriends her. Anybody who speaks 
kindly of her is my friend ; anybody who speaks against her 
is my enemy. Thank you, Miss Swartz ;" and he went up and 
wrung her hand. 

" George ! George !" one of the sisters cried imploringly. 

" I say," George said fiercely, " I think everybody who 
loves Amelia Sed — " He stopped. Old Osborne was in the 
room with a face livid with rage, and eyes like hot coals. 

Though George had stopped in his sentence, yet, his blood 
being up, he was not to be cowed by all the generations of 
Osborne ; rallying instantly, he replied to the bullying look 
of his father with another so indicative of resolution and 
defiance, that the elder man quailed in his turn, and looked 



A QUARREL ABOUT AN HEIRESS. 225 

away. He felt that the tussle was coming. " Mrs. Haggis- 
toun, let me take you down to dinner," he said. " Give 
your arm to Miss Swartz, George," and they marched. 

" Miss Swartz, I love Amelia, and we've been engaged 
almost all our lives," Osborne said to his partner ; and dur- 
ing all the dinner, George rattled on with a volubility which 
surprised himself, and made his father doubly nervous for 
the fight which was to take place as soon as the ladies were 
gone. 

The difference between the pair was, that while the father 
was violent and a bully, the son had thrice the nerve and cour- 
age of the parent, and could not merely make an attack, but 
resist it ; and finding that the moment was now come when 
the contest between him and his father was to be decided, 
he took his dinner with perfect coolness and appetite before 
the engagement began. Old Osborne, on the contrary, was 
nervous, and drank much. He floundered in his conversa- 
tion with the ladies, his neighbors, George's coolness only 
rendering him more angry. It made him half mad to see the 
calm way in which George, flapping his napkin, and with a 
swaggering bow, opened the door for the ladies to leave the 
room ; and filling himself a glass of wine, smacked it, and 
looked his father full in the face, as if to say, " Gentlemen 
of the Guard, fire first." The old man also took a supply 
of ammunition, but his decanter clinked against the glass as 
he tried to fill it. 

After giving a great heave, and with a purple, choking face, 
he then began. " How dare you, sir, mention that person's 
name before Miss Swartz to-day, in my drawing-room ? I ask 
you, sir, how dare you do it ?" 

" Stop, sir," says George, " don't say dare, sir. Dare isn't 
a word to be used to a captain in the British army." 
. "I shall say what I like to my son, sir. I can cut him oif 
with a shilling if I like. I can make him a beggar if I like. 
I will say what I like," the elder said. 

" I'm a gentleman, though I a7?i your son, sir," George an- 
swered haughtily. " Any communications which you have to 
make to me, or any orders which you may please to give, I beg 
may be couched in that kind of language which I am accus- 
tomed to hear." 

Whenever the lad assumed his haughty manner, it always 
created either great awe or great irritation in the parent. Old 
Osborne stood in secret terror of his son as a better gentleman 
than himself ; and perhaps my readers may have remarked 
in their experience of this Vanity Fair of ours, that there is 



2 26 VANITY FAIR. 

no character which a low-minded man so much mistrusts as 
that of a gentleman. 

" My father didn't give me the education you have had, 
nor the advantages you have had, nor the money you have 
had. If I had kept the company some folks have had through 
mymea?is, perhaps my son wouldn't have any reason to brag, 
sir, of his superiority and West End airs [these words were ut- 
tered in the elder Osborne's most sarcastic tones]. But it 
wasn't considered the part of a gentleman, in my time, for a 
man to insult his father. If I'd done any such thing, mine 
would have kicked me down-stairs, sir." 

" I never insulted you, sir. I said I begged you to remem- 
ber your son was a gentleman as well as yourself. I know 
very well that you give me plenty of money," said George 
(fingering a bundle of notes which he had got in the morn- 
ing from Mr. Chopper). " You tell it me often enough, sir. 
There's no fear of my forgetting it." 

" I wish you'd remember other things as well, sir," the 
sire answered. " I wish you'd remember that in this house — 
so long as you choose to honor it with your company^ Captain 
— I'm the master, and that name, and that — that — that you — 
t'hat — I say — " 

"That what, sir?" George asked, with scarcely a sneer, 
filling another glass of claret. 

" !" burst out his father with a screaming oath — 

" that the name of those Sedleys never be mentioned here, sir 
— not one of the whole damned lot of 'em, sir." 

" It wasn't I, sir, that introduced Miss Sedley's name. 
It was my sisters who spoke ill of her to Miss Swartz ; and, 
by Jove, I'll defend her wherever I go. Nobody shall speak 
lightly of that name in my presence. Our family has done her 
quite enough injury already, I think, and may leave off revil- 
ing her now she's down. I'll shoot any man but you who 
says a word against her." 

" Goon, sir, go on," the old gentleman said, his eyes start- 
ing out of his head. 

"Go on about what, sir? about the way in which we've 
treated that angel of a girl ? Who told me to love her ? It 
was your doing. I might have chosen elsewhere, and looked 
higher, perhaps, than your society ; but I obeyed you. And 
now that her heart's mine you give me orders to fling it away, 
and punish her, kill her perhaps, for the faults of other peo- 
ple. It's a shame, by Heavens," said George, working him- 
self up into passion and enthusiasm as he proceeded, " to 
play at fast and loose with a young girl's affections — and 



A QUARREL ABOUT AN HEIRESS, 227 

with such an angel as that — one so superior to the people 
among whom she lived that she might have excited envy, 
only she was so good and gentle that it's a wonder anybody 
dared to hate her. If I desert her, sir, do you suppose she 
forgets me ?" 

" I a'n't going to have any of this damned sentimental non- 
sense and humbug here, sir," the father cried out. " There 
shall be no beggar-marriages in my family. If you choose to 
fling away eight thousand a year, which you may have for 
the asking, you may do it ; but, by Jove, you take your pack 
and walk out of this house, sir. Will you do as I tell you, 
once for all, sir, or will you not ?" 

" Marry that mulatto woman ?" George said, pulling up 
his shirt-collars. " I don't like the color, sir. Ask the black 
that sweeps opposite Fleet Market, sir. Fm not going to 
marry a Hottentot Venus." 

Mr. OsDorne pulled frantically at the cord by which he was 
accustomed to summon the butler when he wanted wine, and, 
almost black in the face, ordered that functionary to call a 
coach for Captain Osborne. 

" I've done it," said George, coming into the Slaughters' 
an hour afterward, looking very pale. 

" What, my boy ?" says Dobbin. 

George told what had passed between his father and himself. 

"I'll marry her to-morrow," he said with an oath. "I 
love her more every day, Dobbin." 



228 



VANITY FAIR, 



CHAPTER XXII. 



A MARRIAGE AND PART OF A HONEYMOON. 




NEMIES the most obstinate and 
courageous can't hold out against 
starvation ; so the elder Osborne 
felt himself pretty easy about his 
adversary in the encounter we 
have just described, and as soon 
as George's supplies fell short, 
confidently expected his uncon- 
ditional submission. It was un- 
lucky, to be sure, that the lad 
should have secured a stock of 
provisions on the very day when 
the first encounter took place ; 
but this relief was only tem- 
porary, old Osborne thought, 
and would but delay George's 
surrender. No communication 
passed between father and son for some days. The for- 
mer was sulky at this silence, but not disquieted ; for, as 
he said, he knew where he could put the screw upon George, 
and only waited the result of that operation. He told the 
sisters the upshot of the dispute between them, but ordered 
them to take no notice of the matter, and welcome George 
on his return as if nothing had happened. His cover was 
laid as usual every day, and perhaps the old gentleman rather 
anxiously expected him ; but he never came. Some one in- 
quired at the Slaughters' regarding him, where it was said 
that he and his friend Captain Dobbin had left town. 

One gusty, raw day at the end of April — the rain whipping 
the pavement of that ancient street where the old Slaugh- 
ters' Coffee-house was once situated — George Osborne came 
into the coffee-room, looking very haggard and pale, al- 
though dressed rather smartly in a blue coat and brass but- 
tons, and a neat buff waistcoat of the fashion of those days. 
Here was his friend Captain Dobbin, in blue and brass too. 



A MARRIAGE AND FART OF A HONEYMOON. 229 

having abandoned the military frock and French-gray trow- 
sers which were the usual coverings of his lanky person. 

Dobbin had been in the coffee-room for an hour or more. 
He had tried all the papers, but could not read them. He 
had looked at the clock many scores of times ; and at the 
street, where the rain was pattering down, and the people, as 
they clinked by in pattens, left long reflections on the shin- 
ing stone ; he tattooed at the table ; he bit his nails most 
completely and nearly to the quick (he was accustomed to 
ornament his great big hands in this way) : he balanced the 
teaspoon dexterously on the milk-jug ; upset it, etc., etc.; and 
in fact showed those signs of disquietude, and practised 
those desperate attempts at amusement, which men are ac- 
customed to employ when very anxious, and expectant, and 
perturbed in mind. 

Some of his comrades, gentlemen who used the room, joked 
him about the splendor of his costume and his agitation of 
manner. One asked him if he was going to be married. Dob- 
bin laughed, and said he would send his acquaintance (Major 
Wagstaff, of the Engineers) a piece of cake when that event 
took place. At length Captain Osborne made his appear- 
ance, very smartly dressed, but very pale and agitated, as we 
have said. He wiped his pale face with a large yellow 
bandana pocket-handkerchief that was prodigiously scented. 
He shook hands with Dobbin, looked at the clock, and told 
John, the waiter, to bring him some curagoa. Of this cordial 
he swallowed off a couple of glasses with nervous eagerness. 
His friend asked with some interest about his health. 

" Couldn't get a wink of sleep till daylight, Dob," said 
he. " Infernal headache and fever. Got up at nine, and 
went down to the Hummums for a bath. I say. Dob, I feel 
just as I did on the morning I went out with Rocket at Que- 
bec." 

"So do I," William responded. " I was a deuced deal 
more nervous than you were that morning. You made a fa- 
mous breakfast. Eat something now." 

" You're a good old fellow, Will. I'll drink your health, old 
boy, and farewell to — " 

" No, no ; two glasses are enough," Dobbin interrupted 
him. " Here, take away the liqueurs, John. Have some 
cayenne-pepper with your fowl. Make haste, though, for it 
is time we were there." 

It was about half an hour from twelve when this brief 
meeting and colloquy took place between the two captains. 
A coach, into which Captain Osborne's servant put his mas- 



230 



VANITY FAIR. 



ter's desk and dressing-case, had been waiting for some time ; 
and into this the two gentlemen hurried under an umbrella, 
and the valet mounted on the box, cursing the rain and the 
dampness of the coachman, who was steaming beside him. 
" We shall find a better trap than this at the church-door," 
says he ; " that's a comfort." And the carriage drove on,, 
taking the road down Piccadilly, where Apsley House and 
St. George's Hospital wore red jackets still ; where there 
were oil-lamps ; where Achilles was not yet born, nor the 
Pimlico arch raised, nor the hideous equestrian monster 
which pervades it and the neighborhood — and so they drove 
down by Brompton to a certain chapel near the Fulham Road 
there. 

A chariot was in waiting with four horses ; likewise a 
coach of the kind called glass coaches. Only a very few 
idlers were collected, on account of the dismal rain. 

" Hang it !" said George, " I said only a pair." 

" My master would have four," said Joseph Sedley's ser- 
vant, who was in waiting ; and he and Mr. Osborne's man 
agreed, as they followed George and William into the church, 
that it was a " reg'lar shabby turn-hout ; and with scarce so 
much as a breakfast or a wedding favor." 

" Here you are," said our old friend Jos Sedley, coming 
forward " You're five minutes late, George, m}^ boy. What 
a day, eh ? Demme, it's like the commencement of the rainy 
season in Bengal. But you'll find my carriage is water-tight. 
Come along, my mother and Emmy are in the vestry." 

Jos Sedley was splendid. He was fatter than ever. His 
shirt-collars were higher ; his face was redder ; his shirt-frill 
flaunted gorgeously out of his variegated waistcoat. Var- 
nished boots were not invented yet ; but the Hessians on 
his beautiful legs shone so, that they must have been the 
identical pair in which the gentleman in the old picture used 
to shave himself ; and on his light green coat there bloomed 
a fine wedding favor, like a great white spreading magnolia. 

In a word, George had thrown the great cast. He was 
going to be married. Hence his pallor and nervousness — 
his sleepless night and agitation in the morning. I have heard 
people who have gone through the same thing own to the 
same emotion. After three or four ceremonies you get ac- 
customed to it, no doubt ; but the first dip, everybody allows, 
is awful. 

The bride was dressed in a brown silk pelisse (as Captain 
Dobbin has since informed me), and wore a straw bonnet with 
a pink ribbon ; over the bonnet she had a veil of white Chan- 



A MARRIAGE AND PART OF A HONEYMOON. 2t,i. 

tilly lace, a gift from Mr. Joseph Sedley, her brother. Cap- 
tain Dobbin himself had asked leave to present her with a 
gold chain and watch, which she sported on this occasion ; 
and her mother gave her her diamond brooch — almost the 
only trinket which was left to the old lady. As the ser- 
vice went on, Mrs. Sedley sat and whimpered a great deal in 
a pew, consoled by the Irish maid-servant and Mrs. Clapp 
from the lodgings. Old Sedley would not be present. Jos 
acted for his father, giving away the bride, while Captain 
Dobbin stepped up as groomsman to his friend George. 

There was nobody in the church besides the officiating per- 
sons and the small marriage party and their attendants. The 
two valets sat aloof superciliously. The rain came rattling 
down on the windows. In the intervals of the service you 
heard it and the sobbing of old Mrs. Sedley in the pew. The 
parson's tones echoed sadly through the empty walls. Os- 
borne's " I will " was sounded in very deep bass. Emmy's 
response came fluttering up to her lips from her heart, but 
was scarcely heard by anybody except Captain Dobbin. 

When the service was completed, Jos Sedley came for- 
ward and kissed his sister, the bride, for the first time for 
many months — George's look of gloom had gone, and he 
seemed quite proud and radiant. " It's your turn, William," 
says he, putting his hand fondly upon Dobbin's shoulder ; and 
Dobbin went up and touched Amelia on the cheek. 

Then they went into the vestry and signed the register. 
" God bless you, old Dobbin," George said, grasping him 
by the hand, with something very like moisture glistening in 
his eyes. William replied only by nodding his head. His 
heart was too full to say much. 

" Write directly, and come down as soon as you can, you 
know," Osborne said. After Mrs. Sedley had taken a hyster- 
ical adieu of her daughter, the pair went off to the carriage. 
" Get out of the way, you little devils," George cried to a 
small crowd of damp urchins that were hanging about the 
chapel-door. The rain drove into the bride's and bride- 
groom's faces as they passed to the chariot. The postilion's 
favors draggled on their dripping jackets. The few chil- 
dren made a dismal cheer as the carriage, splashing mud, 
drove away. 

William Dobbin stood in the church-porch, looking at 
it, a queer figure. The small crew of spectators jeered him. 
He was not thinking about them or their laughter. 

** Come home and have some tiffin, Dobbin," a voice cried 
behind him, as a pudgy hand was laid on his shoulder, and 



212 VANITY FAIR. 

the honest fellow's reverie was interrupted. But the captain 
had no heart to go a-feasting with Jos Sedley. He put the 
weeping old lady and her attendants into the carriage along 
with Jos, and left them without any further words passing. 
This carriage, too, drove away, and the urchins gave another 
sarcastical cheer. 

" Here, you little beggars," Dobbin said, giving some 
sixpences among them, and then went off by himself through 
the rain. It was all over. They were married, and happy, 
he prayed God. Never, since he was a boy, had he felt so 
miserable and so lonely. He longed with a heart-sick yearn- 
ing for the first few days to be over, that he might see her 
again. 

Some ten days after the above ceremony, three young 
men of our acquaintance were enjoying that beautiful pros- 
pect of bow-windows on the one side and blue sea on the 
other, which Brighton affords to the traveller. Sometimes 
it is toward the ocean — smiling with countless dimples, 
speckled with white sails, with a hundred bathing-machines 
kissing the skirt of his blue garment — that the Londoner 
looks enraptured ; sometimes, on the contrary, a lover of 
human nature rather than of prospects of any kind, it is to- 
ward the bow-windows that he turns, and that swarm of hu- 
man life which they exhibit. From one issue the notes of a 
piano, which a young lady in ringlets practises six hours 
daily, to the delight of the fellow-lodgers ; at another, lovely 
Polly, the nurse-maid, may be seen dandling Master Omnium 
in her arms ; while Jacob, his papa, is beheld eating prawns 
and devouring the Times for breakfast, at the window below. 
Yonder are the Misses Leery, who are looking out for the 
young officers of the Heavies, who are pretty sure to be 
pacing the cliff ; or again it is a City man, with a nautical 
turn, and a telescope the size of a six-pounder, who has his 
instrument pointed seaward, so as to command every pleas- 
ure-boat, herring-boat, or bathing-machine that comes to, or 
quits, the shore, etc., etc. But have we any leisure for a de- 
scription of Brighton ? — for Brighton, a clean Naples with gen- 
teel lazzaroni — for Brighton, that always looks brisk, gay, and 
gaudy, like a harlequin's jacket — for Brighton, which used to 
be seven hours' distant from London at the time of our 
story, which is now only a hundred minutes off, and which 
may approach who knows how much nearer, unless Joinville 
comes and untimely bombards it ? 

" What a monstrous fine girl that is in the lodgings over 



A MARRIAGE AND PART OF A HONEYMOON. 233 

the milliner's !" one of these three promenaders remarked to 
the other. '* Gad, Crawley, did you see what a wink she gave 
me as I passed ?" 

" Don't break her heart, Jos, you rascal," said another. 
" Don't trifle with her affections, you Don Juan I" 

" Get away," said Jos Sedley, quite pleased, and leering 
up at the maid-servant in question with a most killing ogle. 
Jos was even more splendid at Brighton than he had been at 
his sister's marriage. He had brilliant under-waistcoats, any 
one of which would have set up a moderate buck. He sported 
a military frock-coat, ornamented with frogs, knobs, black 
buttons, and meandering embroidery. He had affected a mili- 
tary appearance and habits of late ; and he walked with his 
two friends, who were of that profession, clinking his boot- 
spurs, swaggering prodigiously, and shooting death-glances 
at all the servant-girls who were worthy to be slain. 

" What shall we do, boys, till the ladies return ?" the 
buck asked. The ladies were out- to Rottingdean in his car- 
riage on a drive. 

" Let's have a game at billiards," one of his friends said 
. — the tall one, with lacquered mustachios. 

" No, damme ; no, Captain," Jos replied, rather alarmed. 
" No billiards to-day, Crawley, my boy ; yesterday was 
enough." 

" You play very well," said Crawley, laughing. " Don't 
he, Osborne ? How well he made that five-stroke, eh ?" 

" Famous," Osborne said. " Jos is a devil of a fellow at 
billiards, and at everything else, too. I wish there were any 
tiger-hunting about here ; we might go and kill a few before 
dinner. (There goes a fine girl ; what an ankle, eh, Jos ?) 
Tell us that story about the tiger-hunt, and the way you did 
for him in the jungle — it's a wonderful story that, Crawley." 
Here George Osborne gave a yawn. " It's rather slow work," 
said he, " down here ; what shall we do ?" 

"Shall we go and look at some horses that Snaffler's 
just brought from Lewes Fair ?" Crawley said. 

" Suppose we go and have some jellies at Dutton's," said 
the rogue Jos, willing to kill two birds with one stone. 
" Devilish fine gal at Dutton's." 

" Suppose we go and see the Lightning come in, it's just 
about time?" George said. This advice prevailing over the 
stables and the jelly, they turned toward the coach-office to 
witness the Lightning's arrival. 

As they passed, they met the carriage — Jos Sedley's open 
carriage, with its magnificent armorial bearings — that splendid 



234 VANITY FAIR. 

conveyance in which he used to drive about at Cheltenham, 
majestic and solitary, with his arms folded, and his hat cocked ; 
or, more happy, with ladies by his side. 

Two were in the carriage now : one a little person, with 
light hair, and dressed in the height of the fashion ; the other 
in a brown silk pelisse, and a straw bonnet with pink ribbons, 
with a rosy, round, happy face, that did you good to behold. 
She checked the carriage as it neared the three gentlemen, 
after which exercise of authority she looked rather nervous, 
and then began to blush most absurdly. " We have had a 
delightful drive, George, ' she said, " and — and we're so glad 
to come back ; and, Joseph, don't let him be late." 

" Don't be leading our husbands into mischief, Mr. Sed- 
ley, you wicked, wicked man you," Rebecca said, shaking at 
Jos a pretty little finger covered with the neatest French kid 
glove. " No billiards, no smoking, no naughtiness !" 

" My dear Mrs. Crawley — ah now ! upon my honor !" 
was all Jos could ejaculate by way of reply ; but he managed 
to fall into a tolerable attitude, with his head lying on his 
shoulder, grinning upward at his victim, with one hand at 
his back, which he supported on his cane, and the other hand 
(the one with the diamond ring) fumbling in his shirt-frill and 
among his under-waistcoats. As the carriage drove off he 
kissed the diamond hand to the fair ladies within. He wished 
all Cheltenham, all Chowringhee, all Calcutta, could see him 
in that position, waving his hand to such a beauty, and in 
company with such a famous buck as Rawdon Crawley of the 
Guards. 

Our young bride and bridegroom had chosen Brighton 
as the place where they would pass the first few days after 
their marriage ; and having engaged apartments at the Ship 
Inn, enjoyed themselves there in great comfort and quietude, 
until Jos presently joined them. Nor was he the only com- 
panion they found there. As they were coming into the hotel 
from a sea-side walk one afternoon, on whom should they 
light but Rebecca and her husband. The recognition was 
immediate. Rebecca flew into the arms of her dearest friend. 
Crawley and Osborne shook hands together cordially enough ; 
and Becky, in the course of a very few hours, found means to 
make the latter forget that little unpleasant passage of words 
which had happened between them. " Do you remember 
the last time we met at Miss Crawley's, when I was so rude 
to you, dear Captain Osborne ? I thought you seemed care- 
less about dear Amelia. It was that made me angry, and so 
pert, and so unkind, and so ungrateful. Do forgive me !" 



A MARRIAGE AND PART OF A HONEYMOON. 235 

Rebecca said, and she held out her hand with so frank and 
winning a grace that Osborne could not but take it. By 
humbly and frankly acknowledging yourself to be in the 
wrong, there is no knowing, my son, what good you may do. 
I knew once a gentleman and very worthy practitioner in 
Vanity Fair, who used to do little wrongs to his neighbors on 
purpose, and in order to apologize for them in an open and 
manly way afterward — and what ensued ? My friend Crocky 
Doyle was liked everywhere, and deemed to be rather im- 
petuous — but the honestest fellow. Becky's humility passed 
for sincerity with George Osborne. 

These two young couples had plenty of tales to relate to 
«ach other. The marriages of either were discussed, and their 
prospects in life canvassed with the greatest frankness and 
interest on both sides. George's marriage was to be made 
known to his father by his friend Captain Dobbin ; and young 
Osborne trembled rather for the result of that communica- 
tion. Miss Crawley, on whom all Rawdon's hopes depended, 
still held out. Unable to make an entry into her house in 
Park Lane, her affectionate nephew and niece had followed 
her to Brighton, where they had emissaries continually planted 
at her door. 

" I wish you could see some of Rawdon's friends who are 
always about ow door," Rebecca said, laughing. " Did you 
ever see a dun, my dear, or a bailiff and his man ? Two of 
the abominable wretches watched all last week at the green- 
grocer's opposite, and we could not get away until Sunday. 
If aunty does not relent, what shall we do ? 

Rawdon, with roars of laughter, related a dozen amusing 
anecdotes of his duns, and Rebecca's adroit treatment of 
them. He vowed with a great oath thai there was no woman 
in Europe who could talk a creditor over as she could. Al- 
most immediately after their marriage, her practice had begun, 
and her husband found the immense value of such a wife. 
They had credit in plenty, but they had bills also in abun- 
dance, and labored under a scarcity of ready money. Did 
these debt-difficulties affect Rawdon's good spirits ? No. 
Everybody in Vanity Fair must have remarked how well those 
live who are comfortably and thoroughly in debt ; how they 
deny themselves nothing ; how jolly and easy they are in their 
minds. Rawdon and his wife had the very best apartments at 
the inn at Brighton ; the landlord, as he brought in the first 
dish, bowed before them as to his greatest customers ; and 
Rawdon abused the dinners and wine with an audacity which 
no grandee in the land could surpass. Long custom, a manly 



230 



VANITY FAIR. 



appearance, faultless boots and clothes, and a happy fierceness 
of manner will often help a man as much as a great balance 
at the banker's. 

The two wedding parties met constantly in each other's 
apartments. After two or three nights the gentlemen of an 
evening had a little piquet, as their wives sat and chatted 
apart. This pastime, and the arrival of Jos Sedley, who 
made his appearance in his grand open carriage, and who 
played a few games at billiards with Captain Crawley, re- 
plenished Rawdon's purse somewhat, and gave him the bene- 
fit of that ready money for which the greatest spirits are some- 
times at a stand-still. 

So the three gentlemen walked down to see the Light- 
ning coach come in. Punctual to the minute, the coach, 
crowded inside and out, the guard blowing his accustomed 
tune on the horn, the Lightning came tearing down the street, 
and pulled up at the coach-office. 

" Hullo ! there's old Dobbin," George cried, quite de- 
lighted to see his old frined perched on the roof, and whose 
promised visit to Brighton had been de- 
layed until now. " How. are you, old fel- 
low ? Glad you're come down. Emmy' 11 
be delighted to see you," Osborne said, 
shaking his comrade warmly by the hand as 
soon as his descent from the vehicle was 
effected ; and then he added, in a lower and 
agitated voice, "What's the news? Have 
you been in Russell Square ? What does 
the governor say ? Tell me everything." 

Dobbin looked very pale and grave. 
" I've seen your father," said he. " How's 
Amelia — Mrs. George ? I'll tell you all the 
news presently ; but I've brought the great 
news of all, and that is — " 

" Out with it, old fellow," George 
said. 

"We're ordered to Belgium. All the 
army goes — Guards and all. Heavytop's 
got the gout, and is mad at not being able 
to move. O'Dowd goes in command, and 
we embark from Chatham next week." 

This news of war could not but come with 
a shock upon our lovers, and caused all 
these gentlemen to look very serious. 




CA PTA IN D OB BIN PR CEED S ON HIS CA NVASS. 237 



CHAPTER XXIII. 

CAPTAIN DOBBIN PROCEEDS ON HIS CANVASS. 

HAT is the secret mesmerism 
which friendship possesses, 
and under the operation of 
which a person ordinarily 
sluggish, or cold, or timid, 
becomes wise, active, and res- 
olute, in another's behalf ? 
As Alexis, after a few passes 
from Dr. Elliotson, despises 
pain, reads with the back of 
his head, sees miles off, looks 
into next week, and performs 
other wonders, of which, in 
his own private normal con- 
dition, he is quite incapable ; 
so you see, in the affairs of 
the world and under the 
magnetism of friendship, the modest man becomes bold, the 
shy confident, the lazy active, or the impetuous prudent and 
peaceful. What is it, on the other hand, that makes the 
lawyer eschew his own cause, and call in his learned brother 
as an adviser ? And what causes the doctor, when ailing, to 
send for his rival, and not sit down and examine his own tongue 
in the chimney-glass, or write his own prescription at his 
study-table ? I throw out these queries for intelligent readers 
to answer, who know, at once, how credulous we are, and 
how sceptical, how soft and how obstinate, how firm for 
others and how diffident about ourselves : meanwhile, it is cer- 
tain that our friend William Dobbin, who was personally of 
so complying a disposition that if his parents had pressed him 
much,, it is probable he would have stepped down into the 
kitchen and married the cook, and who, to further his own 
interests, would have found the most insuperable difficulty in 
walking across the street, found himself as busy and eager 




23S VANITY FAIR, 

in the conduct of George Osborne's affairs, as the most self- 
ish tactician could be in the pursuit of his own. 

While our friend George and his young wife were enjoying 
the first blushing days of the honeymoon at Brighton, honest 
William was left as George's plenipotentiary in London, to 
transact all the business part of the marriage. His duty it 
was to call upon old Sedley and his wife, and to keep the for- 
mer in good humor ; to draw Jos and his brother-in-law 
nearer together, so that Jos's position and dignity, as collec- 
tor of Boggley Wollah, might compensate for his father's loss 
of station, and tend to reconcile old Osborne to the alliance ; 
and, finally, to communicate it to the latter in such a way as 
should least irritate the old gentleman. 

Now, before he faced the head of the Osborne house with 
the news which it was his duty to tell, Dobbin bethought 
him that it would be politic to make friends of the rest of 
the family, and, if possible, have the ladies on his side. They 
can't be angry in their hearts, thought he. No woman ever 
was really angry at a romantic marriage. A little crying out, 
and they must come round to their brother ; when the three 
of us will lay siege to old Mr, Osborne. So this Machiavellian 
captain of infantry cast about him for some happy means or 
stratagem by which he could gently and gradually bring the 
Misses Osborne to a knowledge of their brother's secret. 

By a little inquiry regarding his mother's engagements, he 
was pretty soon able to find out by whom of her ladyship's 
friends parties were given at that season ; where he would be 
likely to meet Osborne's sisters ; and, though he had that ab- 
horrence of routs and evening parties which many sensible 
men, alas ! entertain, he soon found one where the Misses 
Osborne were to be present. Making his appearance at the 
ball, where he danced a couple of sets with both of them, 
and was prodigiously polite, he actually had the courage to 
ask Miss Osborne for a few minutes' conversation at an 
early hour the next day, when he had, he said, to communi- 
cate to her news of the very greatest interest. 

What was it that made her start back, and gaze upon him 
for a moment, and then on the ground at her feet, and make 
as if she would faint on his arm, had he not by opportunely 
treading on her toes, brought the young lady back to self- 
control ? Why was she so violently agitated at Dobbin's 
request ? This can never be known. But when he came the 
next day, Maria was not in the drawing-room with her sis- 
ter, and Miss Wirt went off for the purpose of fetching the 
latter, and the captain and Miss Osborne were left together. 



CAPTAIN DOBBIN PROCEEDS ON HIS CANVASS. 239 

They were both so silent that the tick-tock of the Sacrifice of 
Iphigenia clock on the mantelpiece became quite rudely audi- 
ble. 

*' What a nice party it was last night," Miss Osborne at 
length began, encouragingly ; " and — and how you're im- 
proved in your dancing, Captain Dobbin. Surely somebody 
has taught you," she added, with amiable archness. 

" You should see me dance a reel with Mrs. Major O'Dowd 
of ours ; and a jig — did you ever see a jig ? But I think any- 
body could dance with you., Miss Osborne, who dance so well," 

" Is the major's lady young and beautiful, captain ?" the 
fair questioner continued. " Ah, what a terrible thing it must 
be to be a soldier's wife ! I wonder they have any spirits to 
dance, and in these dreadful times of war, too! Oh, Captain 
Dobbin, I tremble sometimes when I think of our dearest 
George, and the dangers of the poor soldier. Are there 
many married officers of the — th, Captain D bbin ?" 

" Upon my word, she's playing her hand rather too open- 
ly," Miss Wirt thought ; but this observation is merely par- 
enthetic, and was not heard through the crevice of the door at 
which the governess uttered it. 

" One of our young men is just married," Dobbin said, 
now coming to the point. " It was a very old attachment, 
and the young couple are as poor as church mice." 

" Oh, how delightful ! Oh, how romantic !" Miss Osborne 
cried, as the captain said " old attachment " and "poor." 
Her sympathy encouraged him. 

" The finest young fellow in the regiment," he continued. 
" Not a braver or handsomer officer in the army ; and such a 
charming wife ! How you would like her ! how you will like 
her when you know her, Miss Osborne." The young lady 
thought the actual moment had arrived, and that Dobbin's 
nervousness which now came on and was visible in many 
twitchings of his face, in his manner of beating the ground 
with his great feet, in the rapid buttoning and unbuttoning of 
his frock-coat, etc. — Miss Osborne, I say, thought that when 
he had given himself a little air, he would unbosom himself 
entirely, and prepared eagerly to listen. And the clock, in 
the altar on which Iphigenia was situated, beginning, after a 
preparatory convulsion, to toll twelve, the mere tolling seemed 
as if it would last until one — so prolonged was the knell 
to the anxious spinster. 

" But it's not about marriage that I came to speak — that is 
that marriage — that is — no, I mean — my dear Miss Osborne, 
it's about our dear friend George," Dobbin said. 



240 VANITY FAIR. 

" About George ?" she said in a tone so discomfited that 
Maria and Miss Wirt laughed at the other side of the door, and 
even that abandoned wretch of a Dobbin felt inclined to smile 
himself ; for he was not altogether unconscious of the state 
of affairs : George having often bantered him g^racefuUy and 
said, " Hang it. Will, why don't you take old Jane ? She'll 
have you if you ask her. I'll bet you five to two she will." 

"Yes, about George, then," he continued. "There has 
been a difference between him and Mr. Osborne. And I re- 
gard him so much — for you know we have been like broth- 
ers — that I hope and pray the quarrel may be settled. We 
must go abroad, Miss Osborne. We may be ordered off at a 
day's warning. Who knows what may happen in the cam- 
paign ? Don't be agitated, dear Miss Osborne ; and those 
two at least should part friends." 

" There has been no quarrel, Captain Dobbin, except a 
little usual scene with papa," the lady said. " We are ex- 
pecting George back daily. What papa wanted was only for 
his good. He has but to come back, and I'm sure all will 
be well ; and dear Rhoda, who went away from here in sad, 
sad anger, I know will forgive him. Woman forgives but too 
readily, captain." 

" Such an angel 2Ji you I am sure would," Mr. Dobbin said, 
with atrocious astuteness. " And no man can pardon him- 
self for giving a woman pain. What would you feel if a man 
were faithless to you ?" 

" I should perish — I should throw myself out of window — 
I should take poison —I should pine and die. I know I should, ' ' 
Miss cried, who had nevertheless gone through one or two af- 
fairs of the heart without any idea of suicide. 

" And there are others," Dobbin continued, " as true and 
as kind-hearted as yourself. I'm not speaking about the West 
Indian heiress, Miss Osborne, but about a poor girl whom 
George once loved, and who was bred from her childhood to 
"think of nobody but him. I've seen her in her poverty un- 
complaining, broken-hearted, without a fault. It is of Miss 
Sedley I speak. Dear Miss Osborne, can your generous heart 
quarrel with your brother for being faithful to her ? Could 
his own conscience ever forgive him if he deserted her ? Be 
her friend — she always loved you— and— and I am come 
here charged by George to tell you that he holds his engage- 
ment to her as the most sacred duty he has, and to ^nu^dXyou, 
at least, to be on his side." 

When any strong emotion took possession of Mr. Dobbin, 
and after the first word or two of hesitation, he could speak 



CAPTAIN DOBBIN PROCEEDS ON HIS CANVASS. 241 

with perfect fluency, and it was evident that his eloquence 
on this occasion made some impression upon the lady whom 
he addressed. 

" Well," said she, " this is— most surprising — most painful 
— most extraordinary — what will papa say ? — that George 
should fling away such a superb establishment as was offered 
to him ; but at any rate he has found a very brave champion 
in you. Captain Dobbin. It is of no use, however," she con- 
tinued, after a pause ; '* I feel for poor Miss Sedley, most cer- 
tainly — most sincerely, you know. We never thought the 
m.atch a good one, though we were always very kind to her 
here— very. But papa will never consent, I am sure. And 
a well-brought-up young woman, you know, with a well- 
regulated mind, must — George must give her up, dear Cap- 
tain Dobbin, indeed he must." 

" Ought a man to give up the woman he loved, just when 
misfortune befell her?" Dobbin said, holding out his hand. 
" Dear Miss Osborne, is this the counsel I hear from you ? My 
dear young lady, you must befriend her. He can't give her 
up. He must not give her up. Would a man, think you, give 
you up if you were, poor ?" 

This adroit question touched the heart of Miss Jane Osborne 
not a little. " I don't know whether we poor girls ought to 
believe what you men say, captain," she said. " There is 
that in woman's tenderness which induces her to believe 
too easily. I'm afraid you are cruel, cruel deceivers" — and 
Dobbin certainly thought he felt a pressure of the hand which 
Miss Osborne had extended to him. 

He dropped it in some alarm. " Deceivers !" said he. " No, 
dear Miss Osborne, all men are not ; your brother is not ; 
George has loved Amelia Sedley ever since they were children ; 
no wealth would make him marry any but her. Ought he 
to forsake her ? Would you counsel him to do so ?" 

What could Miss Jane say to such a question, and with her 
own peculiar views ? She could not answer it, so she parried 
it by saying, " Well, if you are not a deceiver, at least you 
are very romantic ;" and Captain William let this observation 
pass without challenge. 

At length when, by the help of further polite speeches, 
he deemed that Miss Osborne was sufficiently prepared to 
receive the whole news, he poured it into her ear. " George 
could not give up Amelia — George was married to her" — and 
then he related the circumstances of the marriage as we know 
them already ; how the poor girl would have died had not her 
lover kept his faith ; how old Sedley had refused all consent 



242 VANITY FAIR. 

to the match, and a license had been got, and Jos Sedley had 
come from Cheltenham to give away the bride ; how they 
had gone to Brighton in Jos's chariot-and-four to pass the 
honeymoon ; and how George counted on his dear, kind sisters 
to befriend him with their father, as women — so true and ten- 
der as they were — assuredly would do. And so, asking per- 
mission (readily granted) to see her again, and rightly conjec- 
turing that the news he had brought would be told in the next 
five minutes to the other ladies, Captain Dobbin made his 
bow and took his leave. 

He was scarcely out of the house when Miss Maria and Miss 
Wirt rushed in to Miss Osborne, and the whole wonderful 
secret was imparted to them by that lady. To do them jus- 
tice, neither of the sisters was very much displeased. There is 
something about a runaway match with which few ladies can 
be seriously angry, and Amelia rather rose in their estimation, 
from the spirit which she had displayed in consenting to the 
union. As they debated the slory, and prattled about it, 
and wondered what papa would do and say, came a loud 
knock, as of an avenging thunder-clap, at the door, which 
made these conspirators start. It must be papa, they 
thought. But it was not he. It was only Mr. Frederick 
Bullock, who had come from the City, according to appoint- 
ment, to conduct the ladies to a flower-show. 

This gentleman, as may be imagined, was not kept long in 
ignorance of the secret. But his face, when he heard it, showed 
an amazement which was very different to that look of senti- 
mental wonder which the countenances of the sisters wore. 
Mr. Bullock was a man of the world, and a junior partner of 
a wealthy firm. He knew what money was, and the value of 
it ; and a delightful throb of expectation lighted up his little 
eyes and caused him to smile on his Maria, as he thought that 
by this piece of folly of Mr. George's she might be worth 
thirty thousand pounds more than he had ever hoped to get 
with her. 

" Gad, Jane," said he, surveying even the elder sister with 
some interest, " Eels will be sorry he cried off. You may be 
a fifty thousand pounder yet." 

The sisters had never thought of the money question up to 
that moment, but Fred Bullock bantered them with graceful 
gayety about it during their forenoon's excursion ; and they 
had risen not a little in their own esteem by the time when, 
the morning amusement over, they drove back to dinner. And 
do not let my respected reader exclaim against this selfish- 
ness as unnatural. It was but this present morning, as he rode 



CAPTAIN DOBBIN PROCEEDS ON HIS CANVASS. 243 

on the omnibus from Richmond, while it changed horses, this 
present chronicler, being on the roof, marked three littk 
children playing in a puddle below, very dirty, and friendly, 
and happy. To these three presently came another little one. 
"'Folly,'' says she, '' your sister s got a penny.'' At which tht 
children got up from the puddle instantly, and ran off to pa) 
their court to Peggy. And as the omnibus drove off I sa^^ 
Peggy with, the infantine procession at her tail, marching 
with great dignity toward the stall of a neighboring iollipop 
woman. 



244 



VANITY FAIR 



CHAPTER XXIV. 



IN WHICH MR. OSBORNE TAKES DOWN THE FAMILY BIBLE. 




O, having prepared the sisters, Dob- 
bin hastened away to the City to 
perform the rest and more difficult 
part of the task which he had un- 
dertaken. The idea of facing old 
Osborne rendered him not a little 
nervous, and more than once he 
thought of leaving the young ladies 
to communicate the secret, which, 
as he was aware, they could not long 
retain. But he had promised to re- 
port to George upon the manner in 
which the elder Osborne bore the in- 
telligence ; so going into the City 
to the paternal counting-house in 
Thames Street, he dispatched thence a note to Mr. Osborne 
begging for a half-hour's conversation relative to the affairs 
of his son George. Dobbin's messenger returned from Mr. 
Osborne's house of business, with the compliments of the 
latter, who would be very happy to see the captain immedi- 
ately, and away accordingly Dobbin went to confront him. 

The captain, with a half-guilty secret to confess, and with 
the prospect of a painful and stormy interview before him, 
entered Mr. Osborne's offices with a most dismal countenance 
and abashed gait, and, passing through the outer room where 
Mr. Chopper presided, was greeted by that functionary from 
his desk with a waggish air which further discomfited him. 
Mr. Chopper winked and nodded and pointed his pen toward 
his patron's door, and said, " You'll find the governor all 
right," with the most provoking good humor. 

Osborne rose too, and shook him heartily by the hand, and 
said, " How do, my dear boy ?" with a cordiality that made 
poor George's ambassador feel doubly guilty. His hand lay 
as if dead in the old gentleman's grasp. He felt that he, 
Dobbin, was more or less the cause of all that had happened. 



MR. OSBORNE TAKES DOWN THE FAMILY BIBLE. 245 

It was he had brought back George to Amelia ; it was he ,had 
applauded, encouraged, transacted almost the marriage which 
he was come to reveal to George's father ; and the latter was 
receiving him with smiles of welcome, patting him on the 
shoulder, and calling him " Dobbin, my dear boy." The 
envoy had indeed good reason to hang his head. 

Osborne fully believed that Dobbin had come to announce 
his son's surrender. Mr. Chopper and his principal were talk- 
ing over the rriatter between George and his father at the 
very moment when Dobbin's messenger arrived. Both agreed 
that George was sending in his submission. Both had been 
expecting it for some days — and " Lord ! Chopper, what a 
marriage we'll have !" Mr. Osborne said to his clerk, snap- 
ping his big fingers, and jingling all the guineas and shillings 
in his great pockets as he eyed his subordinate with a look of 
triumph. 

With similar operations conducted in both pockets, and a 
knowing jolly air, Osborne from his chair regarded t)obbin 
seated blank and silent opposite to him. " What a bumpkin 
he is for a captain in the army," old Osborne thought. " I 
wonder George hasn't taught him better manners." 

At last Dobbin summoned courage to begin. " Sir," said 
he, " I've brought you some very grave news. I have been 
at Lhe Horse Guards this morning, and there's no doubt that 
our regiment will be ordered abroad, and on its way to Bel- 
gium before the week is over. And you know, sir, that we 
shan't be home again before a tussle which may be fatal to 
many of us." 

Osborne looked grave. " My s , the regiment will do 

its duty, sir, I daresay," he said. 

" The French are very strong, sir," Dobbin went on. "The 
Russians and Austrians will be a long time before they can 
bring their troops down. We shall have the first of the fight, 
sir ; and depend on it Boney will take care that it shall be 
a hard one." 

" What are you driving at, Dobbin ?" his interlocutor said, 
uneasy and with a scowl. " I suppose no Briton's afraid of 
any d Frenchman, hey ?" 

" I only mean, that before we go, and considering the great 
and certain risk that hangs over every one of us — if there are 
any differences between you and George — it would be as well, 
sir, that — that you should shake hands ; wouldn't it ? Should 
anything happen to him, I think you would never forgive 
your3elf if you hadn't parted in charity." 

As he said this, poor AA^illiam Dobbin blushed crimson, and 



246 VANITY FAIR. 

felt and owned that he himself was a traitor. But for him, 
perhaps, this severance need never have taken place. Why 
had not George's marriage been delayed ? What call was there 
to press it on so eagerly ? He felt that George would have 
parted from Amelia at any rate without a mortal pang. Ame- 
lia, too, 7fnghth.3.vQ recovered the shock of losing him. It was 
his counsel had brought about this marriage, and all that was 
to ensue from it. And why was it ? Because he loved her so 
much that he could not bear to see her unhappy ; or because 
his own sufferings of suspense were so unendurable that he 
was glad to crush them at once — as we hasten a funeral after 
a death, or, when a separation from those we love is imminent, 
cannot rest until the parting be over. 

" You are a good fellow, William," said Mr. Osborne in a 
softened voice ; " and me and George shouldn't part in anger, 
that is true. Look here. I've done for him as much as any 
father ever did. He's had three times as much money from 
me as I warrant your father ever gave you. But I don't brag 
about that. How I've toiled for him, and worked and em- 
ployed my talents and energy, /won't say. Ask Chopper. 
Ask himself. Ask the City of London. Well, I propose to 
him such a marriage as any nobleman in the land might be 
proud of — the only thing in life I ever asked him — and he 
refuses me. Am / wrong ? Is the quarrel of ;?rF making ? What 
do I seek but his good, for which I've been toiling like a con- 
vict ever since he was born ? Nobody can say there's any- 
thing selfish in ??ie. Let him come back. I say, here's my 
hand. I say, forget and forgive. As for marrying now, it's 
out of the question. Let him and Miss S. make it up, and 
make out the marriage afterward, when he comes back a 
colonel ; for he shall be a colonel, by G — he shall, if money 
can do it. I'm glad you've brought him round. I know it's 
you, Dobbin. You've took him out of many a scrape before. 
Let him come, /shan't be hard. Come along, and dine in 
Russell Square to-day : both of you. The old shop, the old 
hour. You'll find a neck of venison, and no questions asked." 

This praise and confidence smote Dobbin's heart very keenly. 
Every moment the colloquy continued in this tone he felt 
more and more guilty. " Sir," said he, " I fear you deceive 
yourself. I am sure you do. George is much too high-minded 
a man ever to marry for money. A threat on your part that 
you would disinherit him in case of disobedience would only 
be followed by resistance on his." 

** Why, hang it, man, you don't call offering him eight or 
ten thousand a year threatening him ?" Mr. Osborne said, 



MR. OSBORNE TAKES DO WN THE TAMIL Y BIBLE. 247 

with still provoking good humor. " 'Gad, if Miss S. will have 
me, I'm her man. /a'n't particular about a shade or so of 
tawny." And the old gentleman gave his knowing grin and 
coarse laugh. 

" You forget, sir, previous engagements into which Captain 
Osborne had entered," the ambassador said gravely. 

" What engagements ? What the devil do you mean ? You 
don't mean," Mr. Osborne continued, gathering wrath and 
astonishment as the thought now first came upon him — " you 
don't mean that he's such a d fool as to be still hanker- 
ing after that swindling old bankrupt's daughter? You've 
not come here for to make me suppose that he wants to 
marry her ? Marry her^ that is a good one. My son and heir 

marry a beggar's girl out of a gutter ! D him, if he does, 

let him buy a broom and sweep a crossing. She was always 
dangling and ogling after him, I recollect now ; and I've no 
doubt she was put on by her old sharper of a father." 

" Mr. Sedley was your very good friend, sir," Dobbin inter- 
posed, almost pleased at finding himself growing angry. 
" Time was you called him better names than rogue and 
swindler. The match was of your making. George had no 
right to play fast and loose — " 

" Fast and loose !" howled out old Osborne. " Fast and 
loose ! Why, hang me, those are the very words my gentle- 
man used himself when he gave himself airs, last Thursday 
was a fortnight, and talked about the British army to his 
father who made him. What, it's you who have been a set- 
ting of him up — is it ? and my service to you, captain. It's 
you who want to introduce beggars into my family. Thank 
you for nothing, captain. Marry her indeed — he, he ! why 
should he ? I warrant you she'd go to him fast enough with- 
out." 

" Sir," said Dobbin, starting up in undisguised anger ; " no 
man shall abuse that lady in my hearing, and you least of all. ' ' 

" Oh, you're a going to call me out, are you ? Stop, let me 
ring the bell for pistols for two. Mr. George sent you here to 
insult his father, did he ?" Osborne said, pulling at the bell- 
cord. 

" Mr. Osborne," said Dobbin, with a faltering voice, '* it's 
you who are insulting the best creature in the world. You 
had best spare her, sir, for she's your son's wife." 

And with this, feeling that he could say no more, Dobbin 
went away, Osborne sinking back in his chair, and looking 
wildly after him. A clerk came in, obedient to the bell ; and 
the captain was scarcely out of the court where Mr. Osborne's 



248 VANITY FAIR. 

offices were, when Mr. Chopper, the chief clerk, came rushing 
hatless after him. 

" For God's sake, what is it ?" Mr. Chopper said, catching 
the captain by the skirt. " The governor's in a fit. What has 
Mr. George been doing ?" 

" He married Miss Sedley five days ago," Dobbin replied. 
" I was his groomsman, Mr. Chopper, and you must stand his 
friend." 

The old clerk shook his head. " If that's your news, cap- 
tain, it's bad. The governor will never forgive him." 

Dobbin begged Chopper to report progress to him at the 
hotel where he was stopping, and walked off moodily westward, 
greatly perturbed as to the past and the future. 

When the Russell Square family came to dinner that even- 
ing, they found the father of the house seated in his usual 
place, but with that air of gloom on his face which, whenever 
it appeared there, kept the whole circle silent. The ladies, and 
Mr. Bullock, who dined with them, felt that the news had been 
communicated to Mr. Osborne. His dark looks affected Mr. 
Bullock so far as to render him still and quiet ; but he was 
unusually bland and attentive to Miss Maria, by whom he sat, 
and to her sister presiding at the head of the table. 

Miss Wirt, by consequence, was alone on her side of the 
board, a gap being left between her and Miss Jane Osborne. 
Now this was George's place when he dined at home ; and 
his cover, as we said, was laid for him in expectation of that 
truant's return. Nothing occurred during dinner-time except 
smiling Mr. Frederick's flagging, confidential whispers, and 
the clinking of plate and china, to interrupt the silence of the 
repast. The servants went about stealthily doing their duty. 
Mutes at funerals could not look more glum than the domes- 
tics of Mr. Osborne. The neck of venison of which he had 
invited Dobbin to partake was carved by him in perfect si- 
lence ; but his own share went away almost untasted, though 
he drank much, and the butler assiduously filled his glass. 

At last, just at the end of the dinner, his eyes, which had 
been staring at everybody in turn, fixed themselves for a while 
upon the plate laid for George. He pointed to it presently 
with his left hand. His daughters looked at him and did not 
comprehend, or choose to comprehend, the signal ; nor did 
the servants at first understand it. 

" Take that plate away," at last he said, getting up with 
an oath ; and with this, pushing his chair back, he walked 
into his own room. 

Behind Mr. Osborne's dining-room was the usual apart- 



I 



MR. OSBORNE TAKES DO WN THE TAMIL Y BIBLE. 249 

ment which went in his house by the name of the study, and 
was sacred to the master of the house. Hither Mr. Osborne 
would retire of a Sunday forenoon when not minded to go to 
church, and here pass the morning in his crimson-leather 
chair, reading the paper. A couple of glazed bookcases were 
here, containing standard works in stout gilt bindings. The 
" Annual Register," the " Gentleman's Magazine," " Blair's 
Sermons," and " Hume and Smollett." From year's end to 
year's end he never took one of these volumes from the shelf; 
but there was no member of the family that would dare for 
his life to touch one of the books, except upon those rare Sun- 
day evenings when there was no dinner-party, and when the 
great scarlet Bible and Prayer-book were taken out from the 
corner where they stood beside his copy of the Peerage, and 
the servants being rung up to the dining-parlor, Osborne read 
the evening service to his family in a loud, grating, pompous 
voice. No member of the household, child or domestic, ever 
entered that room without a certain terror. Here he checked 
the housekeeper's accounts, and overhauled the butler's cellar- 
book. Hence he could command, across the clean gravel 
courtyard, the back entrance of the stables with which one of 
his bells communicated, and into this yard the coachman 
issued from his premises as into a dock, and Osborne swore 
at him from the study-window. Four times a year Miss Wirt 
entered this apartment to get her salary, and his daughters to 
receive their quarterly allowance. George as a boy had been 
horsewhipped in this room many times, his mother sitting 
sick on the stair listening to the cuts of the whip. The boy 
was scarcely ever known to cry under the punishment ; the 
poor woman used to fondle and kiss him secretly, and give 
him money to soothe him when he came out. 

There was a picture of the family over the mantelpiece, 
removed thither from the front room after Mrs. Osborne's 
death — George was on a pony, the elder sister holding him up 
a bunch of flowers ; the younger led by her mother's hand ; 
all with red cheeks and large red mouths, simpering on each 
other in the approved family-portrait manner. The mother 
lay underground now, long since forgotten — the sisters and 
brother had a hundred different interests of their own, and, 
familiar still, were utterly estranged from each other. Some 
few score of years afterward, when all the parties represented 
are grown old, what bitter satire there is in those flaunting 
childish family-portraits, with their farce of sentiment and 
smiling lies, and innocence so self-conscious and self-satisfied I 
Osborne's own state portrait, with that of his great silver ink- 



250 VANITY FAIR. 

Stand and arm-chair, had taken the place of honor in the din- 
ing-room, vacated by the family-piece. 

To this study old Osborne retired then, greatly to the relief 
of the small party whom he left. When the servants had 
withdrawn, they began to talk for a while volubly but very 
low ; then they went up-stairs quietly, Mr. Bullock accom- 
panying them stealthily on his creaking shoes. He had no 
heart to sit alone drinking wine, and so close to the terrible 
old gentleman in the study hard at hand. 

An hour at least after dark, the butler, not having received 
any summons, ventured to tap at his door and take him in wax 
candles and tea. The master of the house sat in his chair, 
pretending to read the paper, and when the servant, placing 
the lights and refreshment on the table by him, retired, Mr. 
Osborne got up and locked the door after him. This time 
there was no mistaking the matter ; all the household knew 
that some great catastrophe was going to happen which was 
likely direly to affect Master George. 

In the large shining mahogany escritoire Mr. Osborne had a 
drawer especially devoted to his son's affairs and papers. Here 
he kept all the documents relating to him ever since he had 
been a boy ; here were his prize copy-books and drawing- 
books, all bearing George's hand, and that of the master ; here 
were his first letters in large round hand, sending his love to 
papa and mamma, and conveying his petitions for a cake. His 
dear godpapa Sedley was more than once mentioned in them. 
Curses quivered on old Osborne's livid lips, and horrid hatred 
and disappointment writhed in his heart, as looking through 
some of these papers he came on that name. They were all 
marked and docketed, and tied with red tape. It was — ' ' From 
Georgy, requesting 55-., April 23d, 18 — ; answered, April 
25th" — or " Georgy about a pony, October 13th" — and so 
forth. In another packet were " Dr. S.'s accounts" — " G.'s 
tailor's bills and outfits, drafts on me by G. Osborne, jun.," 
etc. — his letters from the West Indies — his agent's letters, and 
the newspapers containing his commissions ; here was a whip 
he had when a boy, and in a paper a locket containing his 
hair, which his mother used to wear. 

Turning one over after another, and musing over these 
memorials, the unhappy man passed many hours. His dear- 
est vanities, ambitious hopes, had all been here. What pride 
he had in his boy ! He was the handsomest child ever seen. 
Everybody said he was like a nobleman's son. A royal prin- 
cess had remarked him, and kissed him, and asked his name 
in Kew Gardens. What City man could show such another? 



MR. OSBORNE TAKES DOWN THE FAMILY BIBLE. 251 

Could a prince have been better cared for ? Anything that 
money could buy had been his son's. He used to go down on 
speech-days with four horses and new liveries, and scatter new 
shillings among the boys at the school where George was : 
when he went with George to the depot of his regiment, be- 
fore the boy embarked for Canada, he gave the officers such a 
dinner as the Duke of York might have sat down to. Had 
he ever refused a bill when George drew one ? There they 
were — paid without a word. Many a general in the army 
couldn't ride the horses he had ! He had the child before 
liis eyes, on a hundred different days when he remembered 
George — after dinner, when he used to come in as bold as a 
lord and drink off his glass by his father's side, at the head of 
the table — on the pony at Brighton, when he cleared the hedge 
an^ kept up with the huntsman — on the day when he was pre- 
sented to the Prince Regent at the levee, when all St. James's 
couldn't produce a finer young fellow. And this, this was 
the end of all ! — to marry a bankrupt and fly in the face of 
duty and fortune ! What humiliation and fury ; what pangs 
of sickening rage, balked ambition, and love ; what wounds 
of outraged vanity, tenderness even, had this old worldling 
now to suffer under ! 

Having examined these papers, and pondered over this one 
and the other, in that bitterest of all helpless woe, with which 
miserable men think of happy past times, George's father 
took the whole of the documents out of the drawer in which 
he had kept them so long, and locked them into a writing-box, 
which he tied, and sealed with his seal. Then he opened the 
bookcase, and took down the great red Bible we have spoken 
of — a pompous book, seldom looked at, and shining all over 
with gold. There was a frontispiece to the volume, represent- 
ing Abraham sacrificing Isaac. Here, according to custom, 
Osborne had recorded on the fly-leaf, and in his large clerk- 
like hand, the dates of his marriage and his wife's death, and 
the births and Christian names of his children. Jane came 
first, then George Sedley Osborne, then Maria Frances, and 
the days of the christening of each. Taking a pen, he care- 
fully obliterated George's name from the page ; and when the 
leaf was quite dry, restored the volume to the place from which 
he had moved it. Then he took a document out of another 
drawer, where his own private papers were kept, and, having 
read it, crumpled it up and lighted it at one of the candles, 
and saw it burn entirely away in the grate. It was his will ; 
which being burned, he sat dowm and wrote off a letter, and 
rang for his servant, whom he charged to deliver it in the 



252 



VANITY FAIR, 



morning. It was morning already : as he went up to bed^ 
the whole house was alight with the sunshine, and the birds 
were singing among the fresh green leaves in Russell Square. 
Anxious to keep all Mr. Osborne's family and dependants 
in good humor, and to make as many friends as possible for 
George in his hour of adversity, William Dobbin, who knew 
the effect which good dinners and good wines have upon 
the soul of man, wrote off immediately, on his return to his 
inn, the most hospitable of invitations to Thomas Chopper, 
Esquire, begging that gentleman to dine with him at the 
Slaughters' next day. The note reached Mr. Chopper before 
he left the City, and the instant reply was, that " Mr. Chopper 
presents his respectful compliments, and will have the honor 
and pleasure ot waiting on Captain D. " The invitation and the 




rough draft of the answer were shown to Mrs. Chopper and her 
daughters on his return to Somers' Town that evening, and 
they talked about military gents and West End men with great 
exultation as the family sat and partook of tea. When the 
girls had gone to rest, Mr, and Mrs. C. discoursed upon the 
strange events which were occurring in the governor's family. 
Never had the clerk seen his principal so moved. When he 



/ \ 



MR. OSBORNE TAKES DOWN THE FAMILY BIBLE. 253 

went in to Mr. Osborne, after Captain Dobbin's departure, 
Mr, Chopper found his chief black in the face, and all but in 
a fit : some dreadful quarrel, he was certain, had occurred 
between Mr. O. and the young captain. Chopper had been 
instructed to make out an account of all sums paid to Captain 
Osborne within the last three years. " And a precious lot 
of money he has had too," the chief clerk said, and respected 
his old and young master the more for the liberal way in 
which the guineas had been flung about. The dispute was 
something about Miss Sedley. Mrs. Chopper vowed and de- 
clared she pitied that poor 5^oung lady to lose such a hand- 
some young fellow as the capting. As the daughter of an 
unlucky speculator, who had paid a very shabby dividend, 
Mr. Chopper had no great regard for Miss Sedley. He re- 
spected the house of Osborne before all others in the City of 
London ; and his hope and wish was that Captain George 
should marry a nobleman's daughter. The clerk slept a great 
deal sounder than his principal that night ; and, cuddling his 
children after breakfast (of which he partook with a very 
hearty appetite, though his modest cup of life was only sweet- 
ened with brown sugar), he set off in his best Sunday suit and 
frilled shirt for business, promising his admiring wife not 
to punish Captain D.'s port too severely that evening. 

Mr. Osborne's countenance, when he arrived in the City at 
his usual time, struck those dependants who were accustomed, 
for good reasons, to watch its expression as peculiarly 
ghastly and worn. At twelve o'clock Mr. Higgs (of the firm 
of Higgs & Blatherwick, solicitors, Bedford Row) called by 
appointment, and was ushered into the governor's private 
room, and closeted there for more than an hour. At about 
one Mr. Chopper received a note brought by Captain Dobbin's 
man, and containing an inclosure for Mr. Osborne, which 
the clerk went in and delivered. A short time afterward Mr. 
Chopper and Mr. Birch, the next clerk, were summoned, and 
requested to witness a paper. " I've been making a new 
will," Mr. Osborne said, to which these gentlemen appended 
their names accordingly. No conversation passed. Mr. Higgs 
looked exceedingly grave as he came into the outer rooms, 
and very hard in Mr. Chopper's face, but there were not any 
explanations. It was remarked that Mr. Osborne was particu- 
larly quiet and gentle all day, to the surprise of those who had 
augured ill from his darkling demeanor. He called no man 
names that day, and was not heard to swear once. He left 
business early, and before going away summoned his chief 
clerk once more, and having given him general instructions, 



254 VAxYITY FAIR. 

asked him, after some seeming hesitation and reluctance to 
speak, if he knew whether Captain Dobbin was in town. 

Chopper said he believed he was. Indeed, both of them 
knew the fact perfectly. 

Osborne took a letter directed to that officer, and giving it 
to the clerk, requested the latter to deliver it into Dobbin's 
own hands immediately. 

" And now. Chopper," says he, taking his hat, and with a 
strange look, " my mind will be easy." Exactly as the clock 
struck two (there was no doubt an appointment between the 
pair) Mr. Frederick Bullock called, and he and Mr. Osborne 
walked away together. 

The colonel of the — th regiment, in which Messieurs Dob- 
bin and Osborne had companies, was an old general who 
had made his first campaign under Wolfe at Quebec, and was 
long since quite too old and feeble for command ; but he took 
some interest in the regiment of which he was the nominal 
head, and made certain of his young officers welcome at his 
table, a kind of hospitality which I believe is not now com- 
mon among his brethren. Captain Dobbin was an especial 
favorite of this old general. Dobbin was versed in the liter- 
ature of his profession, and could talk about the great Fred- 
erick, and the Empress Queen, and their wars, almost as well 
as the general himself, who was indifferent to the triumphs 
of the present day, and whose heart was with the tacticians 
of fifty years back. This officer sent a summons to Dobbin 
to come and breakfast with him, on the morning when Mr. 
Osborne altered his will and Mr. Chopper put on his best 
shirt-frill, and then informed his young favorite, a couple of 
days in advance, of that which they were all expecting — a 
marching order to go to Belgium. The order for the regiment 
to hold itself in readiness would leave the Horse Guards in a 
day or two ; and as transports were in plenty, they would get 
their route before the week was over. Recruits had come in 
during the stay of the regiment at Chatham ; and the old gen- 
eral hoped that the regiment which had helped to beat Mont- 
calm in Canada, and to rout Mr. Washington on Long Island, 
would pro.ve itself worthy of its historical reputation on the 
oft-trodden battle-grounds of the Low Countries. " And so, 
my good friend, if you have any affaire la,'' said the old gen- 
eral, taking a pinch of snuff with his trembling white old hand, 
and then pointing to the spot of his robe de chanibre under which 
his heart was still feebly beating — " if you have any Phillis 
to console, or to bid farewell to papa and mamma, or any will 




Ensign Stubble practising the Art of War. 



MK. OSBORNE TAKES DOWN THE FAMILY BIBLE. 255 

to make, I recommend you to set about your business without 
delay." With which the general gave his young friend a fin- 
ger to shake, and a good-natured nod of his powdered and 
pig-tailed head ; and the door being closed upon Dobbin, sat 
down to pen a poulet (he was exceedingly vain of his French) 
to Mademoiselle Amenaide, of His Majesty's Theatre. 

This news made Dobbin grave, and he thought of our friends 
at Brighton, and then he was ashamed of himself that Amelia 
was always the first thing in his thoughts (always before 
anybody — before father and mother, sisters and duty — always 
at waking and sleeping indeed, and all day long) ; and return- 
ing to his hotel, he sent off a brief note to Mr. Osborne ac- 
quainting him with the information which he had received, 
and which might tend further, he hoped, to bring about a rec- 
onciliation with George. 

This note, dispatched by the same messenger who had 
carried the invitation to Chopper on the previous day, alarmed 
the worthy clerk not a little. It was inclosed to him, and as 
he opened the letter he trembled lest the dinner should be put 
off on which he was calculating. His mind was inexpressibly 
relieved when he found that the envelope was only a reminder 
for himself. (" I shall expect you at half-past five," Captain 
Dobbin wrote). He was very much interested about his em- 
ployer's family ; but, que voulez-vous ? a grand dinner was of 
more concern to him than the affairs of any other mortal. 

Dobbin was quite justified in repeating the general's infor- 
mation to any officers of the regiment whom he should see in 
the coarse of his peregrinations ; accordingly he imparted it 
to Ensign Stubble, whom he met at the agent's, and who — 
such was his military ardor — went off instantly to purchase 
a new sword at the accoutrement-maker's. Here this young 
fellow, who, though only seventeen years of age, and about 
sixty-five inches high, with a constitution naturally rickety 
and much impaired by premature brandy and water, had an 
undoubted courage and a lion's heart, poised, tried, bent, and 
balanced a weapon such as he thought would do execution 
among Frenchmen. Shouting " Ha, ha !" and stamping his 
little feet with tremendous energy, he delivered the point twice 
or thrice at Captain Dobbin, who parried the thrust laughingly 
with his bamboo walking-stick. 

Mr. Stubble, as may be supposed from his size and slender- 
ness,was of the Light Bobs. Ensign Spooney, on the contrary, 
was a tall youth, and belonged to (Captain Dobbin's) the 
Grenadier Company, and he tried on a new bear-skin cap, 
under which he looked savage beyond his years. Then these 



256 



VANITY FAIR. 



two lads went off to the Slaughters', and having ordered a 
famous dinner, sat down and wrote off letters to the kind, 
anxious parents at home — letters full of love and heartiness, 
and pluck and bad spelling. Ah ! there were many anxious 
hearts beating through England at that time, and mothers' 
prayers and tears flowing in many homesteads. 

Seeing young Stubble engaged in composition at one of 
the coffee-room tables at the Slaughters', and the tears trick- 
ling down his nose on to the paper (for the youngster was 
thinking of his mamma, and that he might never see her again), 
Dobbin, who was going to write off a letter to George Os- 
borne, relented, and locked up his desk. " Why should I ?'* 
said he. " Let her have this night happy. I'll go and see 
my parents early in the morning, and go down to Brighton 
myself to-morrow." 




So he went up and laid his big hand on young Stubble's 
shoulder, and backed up that young champion, and told him 
if he would leave off brandy and water he would be a good 
soldier, as he always was a gentlemanly, good-hearted fellow. 
Young Stubble's eyes brightened up at this, for Dobbin was 



MR. OSBORNE TAKES DOWN THE FAMILY BIBLE. ^$7 

greatly respected in the regiment, as the best officer and the 
cleverest man in it. 

" Thank you, Dobbin," he said, rubbing his eyes with his 
knuckles, " I was just — just telling her I would. And, oh, sir, 
she's so dam kind to me." The water-pumps were at work 
again, and I am not sure that the soft-hearted captain's eyes 
did not also twinkle. 

The two ensigns, the captain, and Mr. Chopper dined to- 
gether in the same box. Chopper brought the letter from 
Mr. Osborne, in which the latter briefly presented his compli- 
ments to Captain Dobbin, and requested him to forward the 
inclosed to Captain George Osborne. Chopper knew noth- 
ing further ; he described Mr. Osborne's appearance, it is 
true, and his interview with his lawyer, wondered how the 
governor had sworn at nobody, and — especially as the wine 
circled round — abounded in speculations and conjectures. But 
these grew more vague with every glass, and at length be- 
came perfectly unintelligible. At a late hour Captain Dobbin 
put his guest into a hackney coach, in a hiccuping state, and 
swearing that he would be the kick — the kick — captain's friend 
for ever and ever. 

When Captain Dobbin took leave of Miss Osborne, we have 
said that he asked leave to come and pay her another visit, and 
the spinster expected him for some hours the next day, when, 
perhaps, had he come, and had he asked her that question 
which she was prepared to answer, she would have declared 
herself as her brother's friend, and a reconciliation might have 
been effected between George and his angry father. But 
though she waited at home the captain never came. He had 
his own affairs to pursue ; his own parents to visit and console ; 
and at an early hour of the day to take his place on the Light- 
ning coach, and go down to his friends at Brighton. In the 
course of the day Miss Osborne heard her father give orders 
that that meddling scoundrel, Captain Dobbin, should never 
be admitted within his doors again, and any hopes in which 
she may have indulged privately were thus abruptly brought 
to an end. Mr, Frederick Bullock came, and was particularly 
affectionate to Maria, and attentive to the broken-spirited old 
gentleman. For though he said his mind would be easy, the 
means which he had taken to secure quiet did not seem to have 
succeeded as yet, and the events of the past two days had 
visibly shattered him. 



s^ 



VANITY FAIR, 



CHAPTER XXV. 

IN WHICH ALL THE PRINCIPAL PERSONAGES THINK FIT TO LEAVE 

BRIGHTON. 




ONDUCTED to the ladies, at 
the Ship Inn, Dobbin assumed 
a jovial and rattling manner, 
w^hich proved that this young 
officer was becoming a more 
consummate hypocrite every 
day of his life. He was trying 
to hide his own private feel- 
ings, first upon seeing Mrs. 
George Osborne in her new 
condition, and secondly to 
mask the apprehensions he en- 
tertained as to the effect which 
the dismal news brought down 
by him would certainly have 
upon her. 
" It is my opinion, George," he said, " that the French 
Emperor will be upon us, horse and foot, before three weeks 
are over, and will give the Duke such a dance as shall make 
the Peninsula appear mere child's play. But you need not 
say that to Mrs. Osborne, you know. There mayn't be any 
fighting on our side after all, and our business in Belgium 
may turn out to be a mere military occupation. Many persons 
think so ; and Brussels is full of fine people and ladies of 
fashion." So it was agreed to represent the duty of the Brit- 
ish army in Belgium in this harmless light to Amelia. 

This plot being arranged, the hypocritical Dobbin saluted 
Mrs. George Osborne quite gayly, tried to pay her one or two 
compliments relative to her new position as a bride (which 
compliments, it must be confessed, were exceedingly clumsy 
and hung fire wofully), and then fell to talking about Brigh- 
ton, and the sea-air, and the gayeties of the place, and the 
beauties of the road, and the merits of the Lightning coach and 
horses — all in a manner quite incomprehensible to Amelia, and 



THE PRINCIPAL PERSONAGES LEA VE BRIGHTON, 259 

very amusing to Rebecca, who was watching the captain, as 
indeed she watched every one near whom she came. 

Little Amelia, it must be owned, had rather a mean opinion 
of her husband's friend, Captain Dobbin. He lisped — he was 
very plain and homely-looking, and exceedingly awkward and 
ungainly. She liked him for his attachment to her husband 
(to be sure there was very little merit in that), and she thought 
George was most generous and kind in extending his friend- 
ship to his brother officer. George had mimicked Dobbin's 
lisp and queer manners many times to her, though, to do him 
justice, he always spoke most highly of his friend's good qual- 
ities. In her little day of triumph, and not knowing him in- 
timately as yet, she made light of honest William — and he 
knew her opinions of him quite well, and acquiesced in them 
very humbly. A time came when she knew him better, and 
changed her notions regarding him ; but that was distant as 
yet. 

As for Rebecca, Captain Dobbin had not been two hours 
in the ladies' company before she understood his secret per- 
fectly. She did not like him, and feared him privately ; 
nor was he very much prepossessed in her favor. He was 
so honest, that her arts and cajoleries did not affect him, and 
he shrank from her with instinctive repulsion. And as she was 
by no means so far superior to her sex as to be above jealousy, 
she disliked him the more for his adoration of Amelia. Nev- 
ertheless, she was very respectful and cordial in her manner 
toward him. A friend to the Osbornes ! a friend to her dear- 
est benefactors ! She vowed she should always love him sin- 
cerely : she remembered him quite well on the Vauxhall 
night, as she told Amelia archly, and she made a little fun of 
him when the two ladies went to dress for dinner. Rawdon 
Crawley paid scarcely any attention to Dobbin, looking upon 
him as a good-natured nincompoop and underbred City man. 
•Jos patronized him with much dignity. 

When George and Dobbin were alone in the latter's room, 
to which George had followed him, Dobbin took from his 
desk the letter which he had been charged by Mr. Osborne to 
deliver to his son. " It's not in my father's handwriting, " 
said George, looking rather alarmed ; nor was it : the letter 
was from Mr. Osborne's lawyer, and to the following effect : 

" Bedford Row, ]Viay 7, iSi" 

" Sir : I am commissioned by Mr. Osborne to inform you that he abides 
by the determination which he before expressed to you, and that in conse- 
quence of the marriage which you have been pleased to contract, he ceases 



26o VANITY FAIR. 

to consider you henceforth as a member of his family. This determination 
is final and irrevocable. 

" Although the moneys expended upon you in your minority, and the bills 
which you have drawn upon him so unsparingly of late years, far exceed in 
amount the sum to which you are entitled in your own right (being the third 
part of the fortune of your mother, the late Mrs. Osborne, and which reverted 
to you at her decease, and to Miss Jane Osborne and Miss Maria Frances 
Osborne) ; yet I am instructed by Mr. Osborne to say, that he waives all 
claim upon your estate, and that the sum of 2000/., 4 per cent annuities, at 
the value of the day (being your one-third share of the sum of 6000/.), shall 
be paid over to yourself or your agents upon your receipt for the same, by 

" Your obedient servt., S. Higgs. 

" P. S. — Mr. Osborne desires me to say, once for all, that he declines to 
receive any messages, letters, or communications from you on this or any 
other subject." 

" A pretty way you have managed the affair, " said George, 
looking savagely at William Dobbin. " Look there, Dobbin," 
and he flung over to the latter his parent's letter. " A beg- 
gar, by Jove, and all in consequence of my d — d sentimental- 
ity. Why couldn't v^e have waited ? A ball might have done 
for me in the course of the war, and may still, and how will 
Emmy be bettered by being left a beggar's widow ? It was 
all your doing. You were never easy until you had got me 
married and ruined. What the deuce am I to do with two 
thousand pounds ? Such a sum won't last two years. I've 
lost a hundred and forty to Crawley at cards and billiards 
since I've been down here. A pretty manager of a man's 
matters j'i?^/ are, forsooth." 

" There's no denying that the position is a hard one," Dob- 
bin replied, after reading over the letter with a blank counte- 
nance ; " and as you say, it is partly of my making. There 
are some men who wouldn't mind changing with you," he 
added, with a bitter smile. " How many captains in the reg- 
iment have two thousand pounds to the fore, think you ? You 
must live on your pay till your father relents, and if you 
die, you leave your wife a hundred a year." 

" Do you suppose a man of my habits can live on his pay 
and a hundred a year ?" George cried out in great anger. 
" You must be a fool to talk so, Dobbin. How the deuce am 
I to keep up my position in the world upon such a pitiful pit- 
tance ? I can't change my habits. I must have my comforts. 
/ wasn't brought up on porridge, like MacWhirter, or on 
potatoes, like old O'Dowd. Do you expect my wife to take 
in soldiers' washing, or ride after the regiment in a baggage- 
wagon ?" 

"Well, well," said Dobbin, still igood-naturedly, " we'll 



THE PRINCIPAL PERSONAGES LEA VE BRIGHTON. 26* 

get her a better conveyance. But try and remember that you 
are only a dethroned prince now, George, my boy ; and be 
quiet while the tempest lasts. It won't be for long. Let 
your name be mentioned in the Gazette., and I'll engage the old 
father relents toward you." 

*' Mentioned in the Gazette T' George answered. "And in 
what part of it ? Among the killed and wounded returns, and 
at the top of the list, very likely." 

" Psha ! It will be time enough to cry out when we are 
hurt," Dobbin said. " And if anything happens, you know, 
George, I have got a little, and I am not a marrying man, and 
I shall not forget my godson in my will," he added, with 
a smile. Whereupon the dispute ended — as many scores of 
such conversations between Osborne and his friend had con- 
cluded previously — by the former declaring there was no pos- 
sibility of being angry with Dobbin long, and forgiving him 
very generously after abusing him without cause. 

" T say, Becky," cried Rawdon Crawley out of his dressing- 
room, to his lady, who was attiring herself for dinner in her 
own chamber. 

" What ?" said Becky's shrill voice. She was looking over 
her shoulder in the glass. She had put on the neatest and 
freshest white frock imaginable, and with bare shoulders and 
a little necklace, and a light blue sash, she looked the image 
of youthful innocence and girlish happiness. 

" I say, what'll Mrs. O. do when O. goes out with the regi- 
ment ?" Crawley said, coming into the room, performing a 
duet on his head with two huge hair-brushes, and looking out 
from under his hair with admiration on his prett}'' little wife. 

" I suppose she'll cry her eyes out," Becky answered. " She 
has been whimpering half a dozen times, at the very notion of 
it, already to me." 

" You don't care, I suppose?" Rawdon said, half angry 
at his wife's want of feeling. 

" You wretch ! don't you know that I intend to go with 
you?" Becky replied. "Besides, you're different. You go 
as General Tufto's aide-de-camp. We don't belong to the 
line," Mrs. Crawley said, throwing up her head with an air 
that so enchanted her husband that he stooped down and 
kissed it. 

" Rawdon dear — don't you think — you'd better get that 
— money from Cupid, before he goes ?" Becky continued, fix- 
ing on a killing bow. She called George Osborne, Cupid. She 
had flattered him about his good looks a score of times 
already. She watched over him kindly at ecarte of a night 



26: 



VANITY FAIR. 



when he would drop in to Rawdon's quarters for a half-hour 
before bedtime. 

She had often called him a horrid dissipated wretch, and 
threatened to tell Emmy of his wicked ways and naughty, ex- 
travagant habits. She brought his cigar and lighted it for 




him ; she knew the effect of that manoeuvre, having practised 
It in former days upon Rawdon Crawley. He thought her 
gay, brisk, arch, distinguee, delightful. In their little drives 
and dinners, Becky, of course, quite outshone poor Emmy, 
who remained very mute and timid while Mrs. Crawley and 
her husband rattled away together, and Captain Crawley (and 
Jos after he joined the young married people) gobbled in 
silence. 

Emmy's mind somehow misgave her about her friend. Re- 
becca's wit, spirits, and accomplishments troubled her with 



THE PRINCIPAL PERSONAGES LEA VE BRIGHTON. 2^^, 

a rueful disquiet. They were only a week married, and here* 
was George already suffering ennui, and eager for others' soci- 
ety ! She trembled for the future. How shall I be a com- 
panion for him. she thought— so clever and so brilliant, and I 
such a humble, foolish creature ? How noble it was of him to 
marry me — to give up everything and stoop down to me ! I 
ought to have refused him, only I had not the heart. I ought 
to have stopped at home and taken care of poor papa. And 
her neglect of her parents (and, indeed, there was some foun- 
dation for this charge which the poor child's uneasy conscience 
brought against her) was now remembered for the first time, 
and caused her to blush with humiliation. Oh, thought she. 
I have been very wicked and selfish — selfish in forgetting 
them in their sorrows — selfish in forcing George to marry 
me. I know I'm not worthy of him— I know he would have 
been happy without me — and yet — I tried, I tried to give him. 
up. 

It is hard when, before seven days of marriage are over, 
such thoughts and confessions as these force themselves on a 
little bride's mind. But so it was, and the night before 
Dobbin came to join these young people — on a fine, brilliant 
moonlight night of May — so warm and balmy that the win- 
dows were flung open to the balcony, from which George and 
Mrs. Cra,wley were gazing upon the calm ocean spread shin- 
ing before them, while Rawdon and Jos were engaged at back- 
gammon within — Amelia, couched in a great chair quite neg- 
lected, and watching both these parties, felt a despair and 
remorse such as were bitter companions for that tender, lonely 
soul. Scarce a week was past, and it was come to this ! The 
future, had she regarded it, offered a dismal prospect ; but 
Emmy was too shy, so to speak, to look to that, and embark 
alone on that wide sea, and unfit to navigate it without a 
guide and protector. I know Miss Smith has a mean opinion 
of her. But how many, my dear madam, are endowed with 
your prodigious strength of mind ? 

" Gad, what a fine night, and how bright the moon is !" 
George said, with a puff of his cigar, which went soaring up 
skyward. 

" How delicious they smell in the open air ! I adore them. 
Who'd think the moon was two hundred and thirty-six thou- 
sand eight hundred and forty-seven miles off ?" Becky added, 
gazing at that orb with a smile. " Isn't it clever of me to re- 
member that ? Pooh ! we learned it all at Miss Pinkerton's ! 
How calm the sea is, and how clear everything ! I declare I 
can alniost see the coast of France !" and her bright green 



264 VANITY FAIR, 

eyes streamed out, and shot into the night as if they could s&e 
through it. 

" Do you know what I intend to do one morning?" she 
said ; " I find I can swim beautifully, and some day, when 
my Aunt Crawley's companion — old Briggs, yon know — 
you remember her — that hook-nosed woman, with the long 
wisps of hair — when Briggs goes out to bathe, I intend to dive 
under her awning, and insist on a reconciliation in the water. 
Isn't that a stratagem ?" 

George burst out laughing at the idea of this aquatic meet- 
ing. " What's the row there, you two ?" Rawdon shouted out, 
rattling the box. Amelia was making a fool of herself in an 
absurd, hysterical manner, and retired to her own room to 
whimper in private. 

Our history is destined in this chapter to go backward and 
forward in a very irresolute manner seemingly, and having 
conducted our story to to-morrow presently, we shall imme- 
diately again have occasion to step back to yesterday, so that 
the whole of the tale may get a hearing. As you behold at her 
Majesty's drawing-room, the ambassadors' and high dignita- 
ries' carriages whisk off from a private door, while Captain 
Jones's ladies are waiting for their fly ; as you see in the Secre- 
tary of the Treasury's antechamber, a half-dozen of petitioners 
waiting patiently for their audience, and called out one by 
one, when suddenly an Irish member or some eminent person- 
age enters the apartment, and instantly walks into Mr. Under- 
Secretary over the heads of all the people present ; so in the 
conduct of a tale, the romancer is obliged to exercise this most 
partial sort of justice. Although all the little incidents must be 
heard, yet they must be put off when the great events make 
their appearance ; and surely such a circumstance as that 
which brought Dobbin to Brighton, viz., the ordering out of 
the Guards and the line to Belgium, and the mustering of the 
allied armies in that country under the command of his Grace 
the Duke of Wellington — such a dignified circumstance as that, 
I say, was entitled to the pas over all minor occurrences 
whereof this history is composed mainly, and hence a little 
trifling disarrangement and disorder was excusable and becom- 
ing. We have only now advanced in time so far beyond 
Chapter XXII. as to have got our various characters up into 
their dressing-rooms before the dinner, which took place as 
usual on the day of Dobbin's arrival. 

George was too humane or too much occupied with the tie 
of his neckcloth to convey at once all the news to Amelia 
which his comrade had brought with him from London. He 



THE PRINCIPAL PERSONAGES LEA VE BRIGHTON. 265 

came into her room, however, holding the attorney's letter in 
his hand, and with so solemn and important an air that his 
wife, always ingeniously on the watch for calamity, thought 
the worst about to befall, and running up to her husband, 
besought her dearest George to tell her everything — he was 
ordered abroad ; there would be a battle next week — she knew 
there would. 

Dearest George parried the question about foreign service, 
and with a melancholy shake of the head said, ** No, Emmy ; 
it isn't that ; it's not myself I care about ; it's you. I have 
had bad news from my father. He refuses any communica- 
tion with me ; he has flung us off, and leaves us to poverty. 
/ can rough it well enough ; but you, my dear, how will you 
bear it ? read here." And he handed her over the letter. 

Amelia, with a look of tender alarm in her eyes, listened 
to her noble hero as he uttered the above generous sentiments, 
and sitting down on the bed, read the letter which George 
gave her with such a pompous, martyr-like air. Her face 
cleared up as she read the document, however. The idea of 
sharing poverty and privation in company with the beloved 
object is, as we have before said, far from being disagreeable 
to a warm-hearted woman. The notion was actually pleasant 
to little Amelia. Then, as usual, she was ashamed of herself 
for feeling happy at such an indecorous moment, and checked 
her pleasure, saying demurely, " Oh, George, how your poor 
heart must bleed at the idea of being separated from your 
papa !" 

" It does," said George, with an agonized countenance. 

" But he can't be angry with you long," she continued. 
" Nobody could, I'm sure. He must forgive you, my dearest, 
kindest husband. Oh, I shall never forgive myself if he does 
not." 

"What vexes me, my poor Emmy, is not ?;/;' misfortune, 
but yours," George said. " I don't care for a little poverty ; 
and I think, without vanity, I've talents enough to make my 
own way." 

" That you have," interposed his wife, who thought that 
war should cease, and her husband should be made a general 
instantly. 

" Yes, I shall make my way as well as another," Osborne 
went on ; " but you, my dear girl, how can I bear your being 
deprived of the comforts and station in society which my wife 
had a right to expect ? My dearest girl in barracks ; the 
wife of a soldier in a marching regiment ; subject to all sorts 
of annoyance and privation ! It makes me miserable." 



266 VANITY FAIR. 

Emmy, quite at ease, as this was her husband's only cause 
of disquiet, took his hand, and with a radiant face and smile 
began to warble that stanza from the favorite song of " Wap- 
ping Old Stairs," in which the heroine, after rebuking her 
Tom for inattention, promises " his trousers to mend, and his 
grog too to make," if he will be constant and kind, and not 
forsake her. " Besides," she said, after a pause, during which 
she looked as pretty and happy as any young woman need, 
" isn't two thousand pounds an immense deal of money, 
George ?" 

George laughed at her 7ia'ivete\ and finally went down 
to dinner, Amelia clinging to George's arm, still warbling 
the tune of " Wapping Old Stairs," and more pleased and 
light of mind than she had been for some days past. 

Thus the repast, which at length came off, instead of being 
dismal, was an exceedingly brisk and merry one. The excite- 
ment of the campaign counteracted in George's mind the de- 
pression occasioned by the disinheriting letter. Dobbin still 
kept up his character of rattle. He amused the company with 
accounts of the army in Belgium, where nothing but fetes 
and gayety and fashion were going on. Then, having a par- 
ticular end in view, this dexterous Captain proceeded to de- 
scribe Mrs Major O'Dowd packing her own and her major's 
wardrobe, and how his best epaulets had been stowed into a 
tea-canister, while her own famous yellow turban, with the 
bird of paradise wrapped in brown paper, was locked up in 
the major's tin cocked-hat case, and wondered what effect it 
would have at the French king's court at Ghent, or the great 
military balls at Brussels. 

" Ghent ! Brussels !" cried out Amelia with a sudden shock 
and start. "Is the regiment ordered away, George — is it 
ordered awa}^ ?" A look of terror came over the sweet, smil- 
ing face, and she clung to George as by an instinct." 

*' Don't be afraid, dear," he said, good-naturedly ; " it is 
but a twelve hours' passage. It won't hurt you. You. shall 
go, too, Emmy." 

" /intend to go," said Becky. " I'm on the staff. General 
Tufto is a great flirt of mine. Isn't he, Rawdon ?" 

Rawdon laughed out with his usual roar. William Dobbin 
flushed up quite red. " She can't go," he said ; " think of 
the — of the danger," he was going to add ; but had not all 
his conversation during dinner-time tended to prove there was 
none ? He became very confused and silent. 

" I must and will go," Amelia cried with the greatest spirit; 
and George, applauding her resolution, patted her under the 



THE PRINCIPAL PERSONAGES LEA VE BRIGHTON. 267 

chin, and asked all the persons present if they ever saw such 
a termagant of a wife, and agreed that the lady should bear 
him company. " We'll have Mrs. O'Dowd to chaperon you," 
he said. What cared she so long as her husband was near 
her ? Thus somehow the bitterness of a parting was juggled 
away. Though war and danger were in store, war and dan- 
ger might not befall for months to come. There was a respite 
at any rate, which made the timid little Amelia almost as 
happy as a full reprieve would have done, and which even 
Dobbin owned in his heart was very welcome. For to be 
permitted to see her was now the greatest privilege and hope 
of his life, and he thought with himself secretly how he would 
watch and protect her. I wouldn't have let her go if I had 
been married to her, he thought. But George was the mas- 
ter, and his friend did not think fit to remonstrate. 

Putting her arm round her friend's waist, Rebecca at length 
carried Amelia off from the dinner-table, where so much busi- 
ness of importance had been discussed, and left the gentlemen 
in a highly exhilarated state, drinking and talking very gayly. 

In the course of the evening Rawdon got a little family 
note from his wife, which, although he crumpled it up and 
burnt it instantly in the candle, we had the good luck to read 
over Rebecca's shoulder. " Great news,"' she wrote. "Mrs. 
Bute is gone. Get the money from, Cupid to-night, as he'll 
be off to-morrow most likely. Mind this. — R." So when the 
little company was about adjourning to coffee in the women's 
apartment, Rawdc^T^ touched Osborne on the elbow, and said 
gracefully, '.' 1 say, Osborne, my boy, if quite convenient, I'll 
trouble.,y5u for that 'ere small trifle," It was not quite con- 
venient, but nevertheless George gave him a considerable 
P'^e'sent instalment in bank-notes from his pocketbook, and 
a bill on his agents at a week's date for the remaining sum. 

This matter arranged, George, and Jos, and Dobbin held 
a council of war over their cigars, and agreed that a general 
move should be made for London in Jos's open carriage the 
next day. Jos, I think, would have preferred staying until 
Rawdon Crawley quitted Brighton, but Dobbin and George 
overruled him, and he agreed to carry the party to town, and 
ordered four horses, as became his dignity. With these they 
set off in state, after breakfast, the next day. Amelia had 
risen very early in the morning, and packed her little trunks 
with the greatest alacrity, while Osborne lay in bed deploring 
that she had not a maid to help her. She was only too glad, 
however, to perform this office for herself. A dim, uneasy 
sentiment about Rebecca filled her mind already ; and although 



268 



VANITY FAIR. 



they kissed each other most tenderly at parting, yet we know 
what jealousy is ; and Mrs. Amelia possessed that among 
other virtues of her sex. 

Besides these characters who are coming and going away, 
we must remember that there were some other old friends of 
ours at Brighton — Miss Crawley, namely, and the suite in 
attendance upon her. Now, although Rebecca and her hus- 




band were but a few stones' throw of the lodgings which the 
invalid Miss Crawley occupied, the old lady's door remained 
as pitilessly closed to them as it had been heretofore in Lon- 
don. As long as she remained by the side of her sister-in-law, 
Mrs. Bute Crawley took care that her beloved Matilda should 
not be agitated by a meeting with her nephew. When the 
spinster took her drive, the faithful Mrs. Bute sat beside her 
in the carriage. When Miss Crawley took the air in a chair, 



THE PRINCIPAL PERSONAGES LEA VE BRIGHTON. 269 

Mrs. Bute marched on one side of the vehicle, while honest 
Briggs occupied the other wing. And if they met Rawdon 
and his wife by chance, although the former constantly and 
obsequiously took off his hat, the Miss Crawley party passed 
him by with such a frigid and killing indifference that Rawdon 
began to despair. 

" We might as well be in London as here," Captain Raw- 
don often said, with a downcast air. 

" A comfortable inn in Brighton is better than a sponging- 
house in Chancery Lane," his wife answered, who was of a 
more cheerful temperament. " Think of those two aides-de- 
camp of Mr. Moses, the sheriff's officer, who watched our 
lodging for a week. Our friends here are very stupid, but 
Mr. Jos and Captain Cupid are better companions than Mr. 
Moses's men, Rawdon, my love." 

*' I wonder the writs haven't followed me down here," 
Rawdon continued, still desponding. 

" When they do, we'll find means to give them the slip," 
said dauntless little Becky, and further pointed out to her 
husband the great comfort and advantage of meeting Jos and 
Osborne, whose acquaintance had brought to Rawdon Craw- 
ley a most timely little supply of ready money. 

" It will hardly be enough to pay the inn bill," grumbled 
the guardsman. 

" Why need we pay it ? ' said the lady, who had an answer 
for everything. 

Through Rawdon's valet, who still kept up a trifling ac^ 
quaintance with the male inhabitants of Miss Crawley's ser- 
vants' hall, and was instructed to treat the coachman to drink 
whenever they met, old Miss Crawley's movements were pretty 
well known by our young couple ; and Rebecca luckily be- 
thought herself of being unwell, and of calling in the same 
apothecary who was in attendance upon the spinster, so that 
their information was, on the whole, tolerably complete. Nor 
was Miss Briggs, although forced to adopt a hostile attitude, 
secretly inimical to Rawdon and his wife. She was naturally 
of a kindly and forgiving disposition. Now that the cause 
of jealousy was removed, her dislike for Rebecca disappeared 
also, and she remembered the latter's invariable good words 
and good humor. And, indeed, she and Mrs. Firkin, the lady's- 
maid, and the whole of Miss Crawley's household, secretly 
groaned under the tyranny of the triumphant Mrs. Bute. 

As often will be the case, that good but imperious woman 
pushed her advantages too far, and her successes quite un- 
mercifully. She had in the course of a few weeks brought 



270 VANITY FAIR. 

the invalid to such a state of helpless docility, that the poor 
soul yielded herself entirely to her sister's orders, and did not 
even dare to complain of her slavery to Briggs or Firkin. Mrs. 
Bute measured out the glasses of wine which Miss Crawley 
was daily allowed to take, with irresistible accuracy, greatly 
to the annoyance of Firkin and the butler, who found them- 
selves deprived of control over even the sherry-bottle. She 
apportioned the sweet-breads, jellies, chickens ; their quan- 
tity and order. Night and noon and morning she brought the 
abominable drinks ordained by the doctor, and made her pa- 
tient swallow them with so affecting an obedience, that Firkin 
said, " My poor missus du take her physic like a lamb." She 
prescribed the drive in the carriage or the ride in the chair, 
and, in a word, ground down the old lady in her conva- 
lescence in such a way as only belongs to your proper-man- 
aging, motherly, moral woman. If ever the patient faintly 
resisted, and pleaded for a little bit more dinner or a little 
drop less medicine, the nurse threatened her with instan- 
taneous death, when Miss Crawley instantly gave in. " She's 
no spirit left in her," Firkin remarked to Briggs ; " she a'n't 
'ave called me a fool these three weeks." Finally, Mrs. Bute 
had made up her mind to dismiss the aforesaid honest lady's- 
maid, Mr. Bowls, the large confidential man, and Briggs her- 
self, and to send for her daughters from the Rectory, previous 
to removing the dear invalid bodily to Queen's Crawley, when 
an odious accident happened which called her away from du- 
ties so pleasing. The Reverend Bute Crawley, her husband, 
riding home one night, fell with his horse and broke his collar- 
bone. Fever and inflammatory symptoms set in, and Mrs. 
Bute was forced to leave Sussex for Hampshire. As soon as 
ever Bute was restored, she promised to return to her dearest 
friend, and departed, leaving the strongest injunctions with 
the household regarding their behavior to their mistress ; and 
as soon as she got into the Southampton coach, there was such 
a jubilee and sense of relief in all Miss Crawley's house, as the 
company of persons assembled there had not experienced for 
many a week before. That very day Miss Crawley left off her 
afternoon dose of medicine ; that afternoon Bowls opened an 
independent bottle of sherry for himself and Mrs. Firkin ; that 
night Miss Crawley and Miss Briggs indulged in a game of 
piquet instead of one of Porteus's sermons. It was as in the 
old nursery-story, when the stick forgot to beat the dog, and 
the whole course of events underwent a peaceful and happy 
revolution. 

At a very early hour in the morning, twice or thrice a week, 



THE PRINCIPAL PERSONAGES LEA VE BRIGHTON. 271 

Miss Briggs used to betake herself to a bathing-machine, and 
disport in the water in a flannel gown and an oilskin cap. 
Rebecca, as we have seen, was aware of this circumstance, 
and though she did not attempt to storm Briggs as she had 
threatened, and actually dive into that lady's presence and 
surprise her under the sacredness of the awning, Mrs. Raw- 
don determined to attack Briggs as she came away from her 
bath, refreshed and invigorated by her dip, and likely to be in 
good humor. 

So getting up very early the next morning, Becky brought 
the telescope in their sitting-room, which faced the sea, to 
bear upon the bathing-machines on the beach ; saw Briggs 
arrive, enter her box, and put out to sea ; and was on the 
shore just as the nymph of whom she came in quest stepped 
out of the little caravan on to the shingles. It was a pretty 
picture : the beach ; the bathing-women's faces ; the long line 
of rocks and building were blushing and bright in the sun- 
shine. Rebecca wore a kind, tender smile on her face, and 
was holding out her pretty white hand as Briggs emerged 
from the box. What could Briggs do but accept the saluta- 
tion ? 

" Miss Sh — , Mrs. Crawley," she said. 

Mrs. Crawley seized her hand, pressed it to her heart, and 
with a sudden impulse, flinging her arms round Briggs, 
kissed her affectionately. " Dear, dear friend I" she said, 
with a touch of such natural feeling that Miss Briggs of 
course at once began to melt, and even the bathing-woman 
was mollified. 

Rebecca found no difficulty in engaging Briggs in a long, 
intimate, and delightful conversation. Everything that had 
passed since the morning of Becky's sudden departure from 
Miss Crawley's house in Park Lane up to the present day, 
and Mrs. Bute's happy retreat, was discussed nd described by 
Briggs. All Miss Crawley's symptoms, and the particulars 
of her illness and medical treatment, were narrated by the 
confidante with that fulness and accuracy which women de- 
light in. About their complaints and their doctors do ladies 
ever tire of talking to each other ? Briggs did not on this 
occasion ; nor did Rebecca weary of listening. She was thank- 
►ful, truly thankful, that the dear, kind Briggs, that the faithful, 
the invaluable Firkin, had been permitted to remain with 
their benefactress through her illness. Heaven bless her I 
though she, Rebecca, had seemed to act undutifully toward 
Miss Crawley ; yet was not her fault a natural and excusable 
one ? Could she help giving her hand to the man who had 



2 72 VANITY FAIR. 

won her heart ? Briggs, the sentimental, could only turn up 
her eyes to heaven at this appeal, and heave a sympathetic sigh, 
and think that she, too, had given away her affections long 
years ago, and own that Rebecca was no very great criminal. 

" Can I ever forget her who so befriended the friendless 
orphan ? No, though she has cast me off," the latter said, 
" I shall never cease to love her, and I would devote my life 
to her service. As my own benefactress, as my beloved Raw^- 
don's adored relative, I love and admire Miss Crawley, dear 
Miss Briggs, beyond any woman in the world, and next to 
her I love all those who are faithful to her. / would never 
have treated Miss Crawley's faithful friends as that odious, 
designing Mrs. Bute has done. Rawdon, who was all heart," 
Rebecca continued, " although his outward manners might 
seem rough and careless, had said a hundred times, with tears 
in his eyes, that he blessed Heaven for sending his dearest 
aunty two such admirable nurses as her attached Firkin and 
her admirable Miss Briggs. Should the machinations of the 
horrible Mrs. Bute end, as she too much feared they would, 
in banishing everybody that Miss Crawle}" loved from her 
side, and leaving that poor lady a victim to those harpies 
at the Rectory, Rebecca besought her (Miss Briggs) to remem- 
bei that her own home, humble as it was, was always open 
to receive Briggs. Dear friend," she exclaimed, in a trans- 
port of enthusiasm, " so77ie hearts can never forget benefits ; all 
women are not Bute Crawleys ! Though why should I com- 
plain of her," Rebecca added ; ** though I have been her tool 
and the victim to her arts, do I not owe my dearest Rawdon 
to her >" And Rebecca unfolded to Briggs all Mrs. Bute's 
conduct at Queen's Crawley, which, though unintelligible to 
her then, was clearly enough explained by the events now 
— now that the attachment had sprung up which Mrs. Bute 
had encouraged by a thousand artifices — now that two inno- 
cent people had fallen into the snares which she had laid 
for them, and loved and married and been ruined through her 
schemes. 

It was all very true. Briggs saw the sliatagems as clearly 
as possible. Mrs. Bute had made the match between Rawdon 
and Rebecca. Yet, though the latter was a perfectly innocent 
victim. Miss Briggs could not disguise from her friend her 
fear that Miss Crawley's affections were hopelessly estranged 
from Rebecca, and that the old lady would never forgive her 
nephew for making so imprudent a marriage. 

On this point Rebecca had her own opinion, and still kept 
up a good heart. If Miss Crawley did not forgive them at 



THE PRINCIPAL PERSONAGES LEA VE BRIGHTON. 273 

present, she might at least relent on a future day. Even now 
there was only that puling, sickly Pitt Crawley between Raw- 
don and a baronetcy ; and should anything happen to the 
former, all would be well. At all events, to have Mrs. Bute's 
designs exposed, and herself well abused, was a satisfaction, 
and might be advantageous to Rawdon's interest ; and Re- 
becca, after an hour's chat with her recovered friend, left her 
with the most tender demonstrations of regard, and quite 
assured that the conversation they had had together would 
be reported to Miss Crawley before many hours were over. 

This interview ended, it became full time for Rebecca to 
return to her inn, where all the party of the previous da}^ 
were assembled at a farewell breakfast. Rebecca took such a 
tender leave of Amelia as became two women who loved each 
other as sisters ; and having used her handkerchief plenti- 
fully, and hung on her friend's neck as if they were parting 
forever, and waved the handkerchief (which was quite dry, 
by the way) out of window, as the carriage drove off, she came 
back to the breakfast-table, and ate some prawns with a good 
deal of appetite, considering her emotion ; and while she was 
munching these delicacies explained to Rawdon what had 
occurred in her morning walk between herself and Briggs. 
Her hopes were very high ; she made her husband share them. 
She generally succeeded in making her husband share all her 
opinions, whether melancholy or cheerful 

'* You will now, if you please, my dear, sit down at the 
writing-table and pen me a pretty little letter to Miss Crawley, 
in which you'll say that you are a good boy, and that sort 
of thing." So Rawdon sat down, and wrote off, " Brighton, 
Thursday," and " My dear Aunt," with great rapidity ; but 
there the gallant officer's imagination failed him. He mum- 
bled the end of his pen, and looked up in his wife's face. 
She could not help laughing at his rueful countenance, and 
marching up and down the room with her hands behind her, 
the little woman began to dictate a letter, which he took down. 

" Before quitting the country and commencing a campaign, 
which very possibly may be fatal — " 

" What?" said Rawdon, rather surprised, but took the humor 
of the phrase, and presently wrote it down with a grin. 

" Which very possibly may be fatal, I have come hither — " 

" Why not say come here, Becky ? come here's grammar," 
the dragoon interposed. 

" I have come hither, ' ' Rebecca insisted, with a stamp of her 
foot, " to say farewell to my dearest and earliest friend. I 
beseech you before I go, not perhaps to return, once more 



274 VANITY FAIR. 

to let me press the hand from which I have received nothing 
but kindnesses all my life." 

" Kindnesses all my life," echoed Rawdon, scratching down 
the words, and quite amazed at his own facility of composi- 
tion. 

" I ask nothing from you but that we should part not in 
anger. I have the pride of my family on some points, though 
not on all. I married a painter's daughter, and am not 
ashamed of the union." 

" No, run me through the body if I am !" Rawdon ejacu- 
lated. 

"You old booby," Rebecca said, pinching his ear and 
looking over to see that he made no mistakes in spelling — 
" beseech is not spelled with an a., and earliest is." So he 
altered these words, bowing to the superior knowledge of his 
little missis. 

" I thought that you were aware of the progress of my at- 
tachment," Rebecca continued ; "I knew that Mrs. Bute 
Crawley confirmed and encouraged it. But I make no re- 
proaches. I married a poor woman, and am content to abide 
by what I have done. Leave your property, dear aunt, as 
you will. / shall never complain of the way in which you 
dispose of it. I would have you believe that I love you for 
yourself, and not for money's sake. I want to be reconciled 
to you ere I leave England. Let me, let me see you before I 
go. A few weeks or months hence it may be too late, and I 
cannot bear the notion of quitting the country without a kind 
word of farewell from you." 

" She won't recognize my style in that.,'" said Becky. '* I 
made the sentences short and brisk on purpose." And this 
authentic missive was dispatched under cover to Miss Briggs. 

Old Miss Crawley laughed when Briggs, with great mystery, 
handed her over this candid and simple statement. "We 
may read it now Mrs. Bute is away," she said. " Read it to 
me, Briggs." 

When Briggs had read the epistle out, her patroness- 
laughed more. " Don't you see, you goose," she said to 
Briggs, who professed to be much touched by the honest affec- 
tion which pervaded the composition — "don't you see that 
Rawdon never wrote a word of it ? He never wrote to me 
without asking for money in his life, and all his letters are 
full of bad spelling and dashes and bad grammar. It is that 
little serpent of a governess who rules him." They are all 
alike. Miss Crawley thought in her heart. They all want me 
dead, and are hankering for my money. 



THE PRINCIPAL PERSONAGES LEA VE BRIGHTON. 275 

" I don't mind seeing Rawdon," she added, after a pause, 
and in a tone of perfect indifference. " I had just as soon 
shake hands with him as not. Provided there is no scene, why 
shouldn't we meet ? I don't mind. But human patience 
has its limits ; and mind, my dear, I respectfully decline to 
receive Mrs. Rawdon — I can't support that quite" — and Miss 
Briggs was fain to be content with this half-message of con- 
ciliation, and thought that the best method of bringing the 
old lady and her nephew together was to warn Rawdon to be 
in waiting on the Cliff when Miss Crawley went out for her 
air in her chair. 

There they met. I don't know whether Miss Crawley had 
any private feeling of regard or emotion upon seeing her old 
favorite ; but she held out a couple of fingers to him with as 
smiling and good-humored an air as if they had met only the 
day before. And as for Rawdon, he turned as red as scarlet, 
and wrung off Briggs's hand, so great was his rapture and 
his confusion at the meeting. Perhaps it was interest that 
moved him ; or perhaps affection ; perhaps he was touched 
by the change which the illness of the last weeks had wrought 
in his aunt. 

" The old girl has always acted like a trump to me," he 
said to his wife, as he narrated the interview, " and I felt, 
you know, rather queer, and that sort of thing. I walked 
by the side of the what-d'ye-call-'em, you know, and to her 
own door, where Bowls came to help her in. And I wanted 
to go in very much, only — " 

" You didn t go 171, Rawdon !" screamed his wife. 

" No, my dear ; I'm hanged if I wasn't afraid when it came 
to the point." 

" You fool ! you ought to have gone in, and never come out 
again," Rebecca said. 

" Don't call me names," said the big guardsman sulkily. 
" Perhaps I was a fool, Becky, but you shouldn't say so ;" 
and he gave his wife a look, such as his countenance could 
wear when angered, and such as was not pleasant to face. 

"Well, dearest, to-morrow you must be on the lookout, 
and go and see her, mind, whether she asks you or no," Re- 
becca said, trying to soothe her angry yoke-mate. On which 
he replied that he would do exactly as he liked, and would 
just thank her to keep a civil tongue in her head ; and the 
wounded husband went away, and passed the forenoon at the 
billiard-room, sulky, silent, and suspicious. 

But before the night was over he was compelled to give in, 



276 VANITY FAI^. 

and own, as usual, to his wife's superior prudence and fore- 
sight, by the most melancholy confirmation of the presenti- 
ments which she had regarding the consequences of the mis- 
take which he had made. Miss Crawley must have had some 
emotion upon seeing him and shaking hands with him after 
so long a rupture. She mused upon the meeting a consid- 
erable time. " Rawdon is getting very fat and old, Briggs," 
she said to her companion. " His nose has become red, and 
he is exceeding! - coarse in appearance. His marriage to that 
woman has hopelessly vulgarized him. Mrs. Bute always said 
they drank together ; and I have no doubt they do. Yes ; he 
smelt of gin abominably. I remarked it. Didn't you?" 

In vain Briggs interposed that Mrs. Bute spoke ill of every- 
body ; and, as far as a person in her humble position could 
judge, was an — " 

" An artful, designing woman ? Yes, so she is, and she does 
speak ill of every one ; but I am certain that woman has made 
Rawdon drink. All those low people do — " 

" He was very much affected at seeing you, ma'am," the 
companion said ; " and I am sure, when you remember that 
he is going to the field of danger — " 

" How much money has he promised you, Briggs ?" the 
old spinster cried out, working herself into a nervous rage — 
" there now, of course you begin to cry. I hate scenes. Why 
am I always to be worried ? Go and cry up in your own room, 
and send Firkin to me — no, stop, sit down and blow your 
nose, and leave off crying, and write a letter to Captain Craw- 
ley." Poor Briggs went and placed herself obediently at the 
writing-book. Its leaves were blotted all over with relics of 
the firm, strong, rapid handwriting of the spinster's late aman- 
uensis, Mrs. Bute Crawley. 

" Begin ' My dear sir,' or ' Dear sir,' that will be better, 
and say you are desired by Miss Crawley — no, by Miss Craw- 
ley's medical man, by Mr. Creamer, to state, that my health 
is such that all strong emotions would be dangerous in my 
present delicate condition, and that I must decline any family 
discussions or interviews whatever. And thank him for com- 
ing to Brighton, and so forth, and beg him not to stay any 
longer on my account. And, Miss Briggs, you may add that 
I wish him a bo7i voyage^ and that if he will take the trouble 
to call upon my lawyer's in Gray Inn Square, he will find 
there a communication for him. Yes, that will do ; and that 
will make him leave Brighton." The benevolent Briggs penned 
this sentence with the utmost satisfaction. 

To seize upon me the very day after Mrs. Bute was gone, ' ' 



THE PRINCIPAL PERSONAGES LEAVE BRIGHTON. 277 

the old lady prattled on ; "it was too indecent. Briggs, my 
dear, write to Mrs, Crawley, and say she needn't come back. 
No — she needn't — and she shan't — and I won't be a slave in 
my own house — and I won't be starved and choked with poi- 
son. They all want to kill me — all — all ;" and with this the 
lonely old woman burst into a scream of hysterical tears. 

The last scene of her dismal Vanity Fair comedy was fast 
approaching ; the tawdry lamps were going out one by one ; 
and the dark curtain was almost ready to descend. 

That final paragraph, which referred Rawdon to Miss Craw- 
ley's solicitor in London, and which Briggs had written so 
good-naturedly, consoled the dragoon and his wife somewhat, 
after their first blank disappointment, on reading the spinster's 
refusal of a reconciliation. And it effected the purpose for 
which the old lady had caused it to be written, by making 
Rawdon very eager to get to London. 

Out of Jos's losings and George Osborne's bank-notes, he 
paid his bill at the inn, the landlord whereof does not prob- 
ably know to this day how doubtfully his account once stood. 
For, as a general sends his baggage to the rear before an ac- 
tion, Rebecca had wisely packed up all their chief valuables 
and sent them off under care of George's servant, who went 
in charge of the trunks on the coach back to London. Raw- 
don and his wife returned by the same conveyance next day. 

'* I should have liked to see the old girl before we went," 
Rawdon said. " She looks so cut up and altered that I'm 
sure she can't last long. I wonder what sort of a check I shall 
have at Waxy's. Two hundred — it can't be less than two 
hundred — hey, Becky?" 

In consequence of the repeated visits of the aides-de-camp 
of the Sheriff of Middlesex, Rawdon and his wife did not go 
back to their lodgings at Brompton, but put up at an inn. 
Early the next morning Rebecca had an opportunity of seeing 
them as she skirted that suburb on her road to old Mrs. Sed- 
ley's house at Fulham, whither she went to look for her dear 
Amelia and her Brighton friends. They were all off to Chat- 
ham, thence to Harwich, to take shipping for Belgium with 
the regiment — kind old Mrs. Sedley very much depressed and 
tearful, solitary. Returning from this visit, Rebecca found 
her husband who had been off to Gray's Inn, and learned his 
fate. He came back furious. 

" By Jove, Becky," says he, *' she's only given me twenty 
pounds !" 

Though it told against themselves, the joke was too good, 
and Becky burst out laughing at Rawdon's discomfitur_. 



'"7' 



VANITY FAIR. 



CHAPTER XXVI. 



BETWEEN LONDON AND CHATHAM. 




N quitting Brighton, our friend 
George, as became a person of 
rank and fashion travelling in a 
barouche with four horses, drove 
in state to a fine hotel in Caven- 
dish Square, where a suite of 
splendid rooms, and a table mag- 
nificently furnished with plate 
and surrounded by a half dozen 
of black and silent waiters, was 
ready to receive the young gen- 
tleman and his bride. George 
did the honors of the place with 
a princely air to Jos and Dobbin ; and Amelia, for the first 
time, and with exceeding shyness and timidity, presided at 
what George called her own table. 

George pooh-poohed the wine and bullied the waiters roy- 
ally, and Jos gobbled the turtle with immense satisfaction. 
Dobbin helped him to it ; for the lady of the house, before 
v/hom the tureen was placed, was so ignorant of the contents 
that she was going to help Mr. Sedley without bestowing upon 
him either calipash or calipee. 

The splendor of the entertainment, and the apartments in 
which it was given, alarmed Mr. Dobbin, who remonstrated 
after dinner, when Jos was asleep in the great chair. But in 
vain he cried out against the enormity of turtle and champagne 
that was fit for an archbishop. " I've always been accustomed 
to travel like a gentleman," George said, " and damme, my 
wife shall travel like a lady. As long as there's a shot in the 
locker, she shall want for nothing," said the generous fellow, 
quite pleased with himself for his magnificence of spirit. Nor 
did Dobbin try to convince him that Amelia's happiness was 
not centred in turtle soup. 

Awhile after dinner Amelia timidly expressed a wish to go 
and see her mamma at Fulham ; which permission George 



BETWEEN LONDON AND CHATHAM. 279. 

granted her with some grumbling. And she tripped awa)r 
to her enormous bedroom, in the centre of which stood the 
enormous funereal bed, " that the Emperor Halixander's sis- 
ter slep in when the allied sufferings was here," and put on 
her little bonnet and shawl with the utmost eagerness and 
pleasure. George was still drinking claret when she returned 
to the dining-room, and made no signs of moving. " Aren't 
you coming with me, dearest?" she asked him. No; the 
" dearest" had " business" that night. His man should get 
her a coach and go with her. And the coach being at the 
door of the hotel, Amelia made George a little disappointed 
courtesy after looking vainly into his face once or twice, and 
went sadly down the great staircase, Captain Dobbin after, 
who handed her into the vehicle, and saw it drive away to its 
destination. The very valet was ashamed of mentioning the 
address to the hackney-coachman before the hotel waiters,, 
and promised to instruct him when they got farther on. 

Dobbin walked home to his old quarters at: the Slaughters',, 
thinking very likely that it would be delightful to be in that 
hackney-coach, along with Mrs. Osborne. George was evi- 
dently of quite a different taste ; for when he had taken wine 
enough, he went off to half price at the play, to see Mr. Kean 
perform in Shylock. Captain Osborne was a great lover of 
the drama, and had himself performed high-comedy characters 
with great distinction in several garrison theatrical entertain- 
ments. Jos slept on until long after dark, when he woke up 
with a start at the motions of his servant, who was removing 
and emptying the decanters on the table ; and the hackney- 
coach stand was again put into requisition for a carriage to- 
convey this stout hero to his lodgings and bed. 

Mrs. Sedley, you may be sure, clasped her daughter to her 
heart with all maternal eagerness and affection, running out 
of the door as the carriage drew up before the little garden- 
gate, to welcome the weeping, trembling young bride. Old 
Mr. Clapp, who was in his shirt-sleeves, trimming the garden- 
plot, shrank back alarmed. The Irish servant-lass rushed up 
from the kitchen and smiled a " God bless you !" Amelia 
could hardly walk along the flags and up the steps into the 
parlor. 

How the floodgates were opened, and mother and daughter 
wept, when they were together embracing each other in this 
sanctuary, may readily be imagined by every reader who pos- 
sesses the least sentimental turn. When don't ladies weep ? 
At what occasion of joy, sorrow, or other business of life ? 
and, after such an event as a marriage, mother and daughter 



28o 



VANITY FAIR. 



were surely at liberty to give way to a sensibility which is as 
tender as it is refreshing. About a question of marriage I 
have seen women who hate each other kiss and cry together 
quite fondly. How much more do they feel when they love ? 
Good mothers are married over again at their daughters' 
w^eddings ; and as for subsequent events, who does not know 
how ultra-maternal grandmothers are ? — in fact, a woman, 
until she is a grandmother, does not often really know what 
to be a mother is. Let us respect Amelia and her mamma 
whispering and whimpering and laughing and crying in the 
parlor and the twilight. Old Mr. Sedley did. He had not 
divined who was in the carriage when it drove up. He had 
not flown out to meet his daughter, though he kissed her very 
warmly when she entered the room (where he was occupied, 
as usual, with his papers and tapes and statements of ac- 
counts), and after sitting with the mother and daughter for 
a short time, he very wisely left the little apartment in their 
possession. 




George's valet was looking on in a very supercilious man- 
ner at Mr. Clapp in his shirt-sleeves, watering his rose-bushes. 
He took off his hat, however, with much condescension to 



BETWEEN LONDON AND CHATHAM, 281 

Mr. Sedley, who asked news about his son-in-law, and about 
Jos's carriage, and whether his horses had been down to Brigh- 
ton, and about that infernal traitor Bonaparty, and the war ; 
until the Irish maid-servant came with a plate and a bottle 
of wine, from which the old gentleman insisted upon helping 
the valet. He gave him a half-guinea too, which the servant 
pocketed with a mixture of wonder and contempt. " To the 
health of your master and mistress, Trotter," Mr. Sedley 
said, "and here's something to drink your health when you 
get home, Trotter." 

There were but nine days past since Amelia had left that 
little cottage and home, and yet how far off the time seemed 
since she had bidden it farewell ! What a gulf lay between 
her and that past life ! She could look back to it from her 
present standing-place, and contemplate, almost as another 
being, the young unmarried girl absorbed in her love, having 
no eyes but for one special object, receiving parental affection 
if not ungratefully, at least indifferently, and as if it were her 
due — her whole heart and thoughts bent on the accomplish- 
ment of one desire. The review of those days, so lately gone 
yet so faraway, touched her with shame ; and the aspect of the 
kind parents filled her with tender remorse. Was the prize 
gained — the heaven of life — and the winner still doubtful and 
unsatisfied ? As his hero and heroine pass the matrimonial 
ba rier, the novelist generally drops the curtain, as if the 
drama were over then ; the doubts and struggles of life ended ; 
as if, once landed in the marriage country, all were green and 
pleasant there ; and wife and husband had nothing to do but 
to link each other's arms together, and wander gently down- 
ward toward old age in happy and perfect fruition. But 
our little Amelia was just on the bank of her new country, 
and was already looking anxiously back toward the sad, friend- 
ly figures waving farewell to her across the stream, from the 
other distant shore. 

In honor of the young bride's arrival, her mother thought 
it necessary to prepare I don't know what festive entertain- 
ment, and after the first ebullition of talk, took leave of Mrs. 
George Osborne for a while, and dived down to the lower re- 
gions of the house to a sort of kitchen-parlor (occupied by 
Mr. and Mrs. Clapp, and in the evening, when her dishes were 
washed and her curl-papers removed, by Miss Flannigan, the 
Irish servant), there to take measures for the preparing of a 
magnificent ornamented tea. All people have their ways of 
expressing kindness, and it seemed to Mrs. Sedley that a 
muffin and a quantity of orange marmalade spread out in a 



.2«2 



VANITY FAIR. 



little cut-glass saucer would be peculiarly agreeable refresh- 
ments to Amelia in her most interesting situation. 

While these delicacies were being transacted below, Amelia, 
leaving the drawingroom, walked up-stairs, and found her- 
self she scarce knew how, in the little room which she had 
occupied before her marriage, and in that very chair in which 
she had passed so many bitter hours. She sank back in its 
arms as if it were an old friend, and fell to thinking over the 
past week and the life beyond it. Already to be looking sadly 
and vaguely back ; always to be pining for something which, 
when obtained, brought doubt and sadness rather than pleas- 
ure ; here was the lot of our poor little creature, and harm- 
less, lost wanderer in the great, struggling crowds of Vanity 
Fair. 




Here she sat, and recalled to herself fondly that image of 
George to which she had knelt before marriage. Did she own 
to herself how different the real man was from that superb 
young nero whom she had worshipped ? It requires many, 
many years — and a man must be very bad indeed — before a 



BETWEEN LONDON AND CHATHAM. 283 

woman's pride and vanity will let her own to such a confession. 
Then Rebecca's twinkling green eyes and baleful smile lighted 
upon her, and filled her with dismay. x\nd so she sat for a 
while indulging in her usual mood of selfish brooding, in that 
very listless, melancholy attitude in which the honest maid- 
servant had found her on the day when she brought up the 
letter in which George renewed his offer of marriage. 

She looked at the little white bed, which had been hers a 
few days before, and thought she would like to sleep in it that 
night, and wake, as formerly, with her mother smiling over 
her in the morning. Then she thought with terror of the great 
funereal damask pavilion in the vast and dingy state bedroom, 
which was awaiting her at the grand hotel in Cavendish 
Square. Dear little white bed ! how many a long night had 
she wept on its pillow ! How she had despaired and hoped to 
die there ! and now were not all her wishes accomplished, and 
the lover of whom she had despaired her own forever? Kind 
mother I how patiently and tenderly she had watched round 
that bed ! She went and knelt down by the bedside ; and 
there this wounded and timorous, but gentle and loving, soul 
sought for consolation, where as yet, it must be owned, our 
little girl had but seldom looked for it. Love had been her 
faith hitherto ; and the sad, bleeding, disappointed heart began 
to feel the want of another consoler. 

Have we a right to repeat or to overhear her prayers ? These, 
brother, are secrets, and out of the domain of Vanity Fair, in 
which our story lies. 

But this may be said, that when the tea was finally an- 
nounced, our young lady came down-stairs a great deal more 
cheerful ; that she did not despond or deplore her fate, or 
think about George's coldness, or Rebecca's eyes, as she had 
been wont to do of late. She went down-stairs, and kissed 
her father and mother, and talked to the old gentleman, and 
made him more merry than he had been for man}^ a day. 
She sat down at the piano which Dobbin had bought for her, 
and sang over all her father's favorite old songs. She pro- 
nounced the tea to be excellent, and praised the exquisite 
taste in which the marmalade was arranged in the saucers. 
And in determining to make everybody else happy, she found 
herself so ; and was sound asleep in the great funereal pavil- 
ion, and only woke up with a smile when George arrived from 
the theatre. 

For the next day George had more important " business" 
to transact than that which took him to see Mr. Kean in Shy- 
lock. Immediately on his arrival in London he had written 



2S4 VANITY FAIR. 

off to his father's solicitors, signifying his royal pleasure that 
an interview should take place between them on the morrow. 
His hotel losses at billiards and cards to Captain Crawley 
had almost drained the young man's purse, which wanted re- 
plenishing before he set out on his travels, and he had no 
resource but to infringe upon the two thousand pounds which 
the attorneys were commissioned to pay over to him. He had 
a perfect belief in his own mind that his father would relent 
before very long. How could any parent be obdurate for a 
length of time against such a paragon as he was ? If his mere 
past and personal merits did not succeed in mollifying his 
father, George determined that he would distinguish himself 
so prodigiously in the ensuing campaign that the old gentle- 
man must give in to him. And if not ? Bah ! the world was 
before him. His luck might change at cards, and there was 
a deal of spending in two thousand pounds. 

So he sent off Amelia once more in a carriage to her mamma, 
with strict orders and carte blanche to the two ladies to 
purchase everything requisite for a lady of Mrs. George Os- 
borne's fashion, who was going on a foreign tour. They had 
but one day to complete the outfit, and it may be imagined 
that their business therefore occupied them pretty fully. In 
a carriage once more, bustling about from milliner to linen- 
draper, escorted back to the carriage by obsequious shopmen 
or polite owners, Mrs. Sedley was herself again almost, and 
sincerely happy for the first time since their m.isfortunes. 
Nor was Mrs. Amelia at all above the pleasure of shopping 
and bargaining and seeing and buying pretty things. (Would 
any man, the most philosophic, give twopence for a woman 
who was ?) She gave herself a little treat, obedient to her 
husband's orders, and purchased a quantity of lady's gear, 
showing a great deal of taste and elegant discernment, as 
all the shop -folks said. 

And about the war that was ensuing, Mrs. Osborne was not 
much alarmed ; Bonaparty w^as to be crushed almost with- 
out a struggle. Margate packets were sailing every day, 
filled with men of fashion and ladies of note, on their way to 
Brussels and Ghent. People were going not so much to a 
war as to a fashionable tour. The newspapers laughed the 
wretched upstart and swindler to scorn. Such a Corsican 
wretch as that withstand the armies of Europe and the genius 
of the immortal Wellington ! Amelia held him in utter con- 
tempt ; for it needs not to be said that this soft and gentle 
creature took her opinions from those people who surrounded 
her, such fidelity being much too humble-minded to think for 



BETWEEN LONDON AND CHATHAM. 285 

itself. Well, in a word, she and her mother performed a great 
day's shopping, and she acquitted herself with considerable 
liveliness and credit on this her first appearance in the genteel 
world of London. 

George, meanwhile, with his hat on one side, his elbows 
squared, and his swaggering, martial air, made for Bedford 
Row, and stalked into the attorney's office as if he was lord 
of every pale-faced clerk who was scribbling there. He or- 
dered somebody to inform Mr. Higgs that Captain Osborne 
was waiting, in a fierce and patronizing way, as if ih.& pekin 
of an attorney, who had thrice his brains, fifty times his 
money, and a thousand times his experience, was a wretched 
underling who should instantly leave all his business in life 
to attend on the captain's pleasure. He did not see the sneer 
of contempt which passed all round the room, from the first 
clerk to the articled gents, from the articled gents to the rag- 
ged writers and white-faced runners, in clothes too tight for 
them, as he sat there tapping his boot with his cane, and 
thinking what a parcel of miserable poor devils these were. 
The miserable poor devils knew all about his affairs. They 
talked about them over their pints of beer at their public- 
house clubs to other clerks of a night. Ye Gods, what do not 
attorneys and attorneys' clerks know in London ! Nothing 
is hidden from their inquisition, and their familiars mutely 
rule our city. 

Perhaps George expected, when he entered Mr. Higgs's 
apartment, to find that gentleman commissioned to give him 
some message of compromise or conciliation from his father ; 
perhaps his haughty and cold demeanor was adopted as a sign 
of his spirit and resolution ; but if so, his fierceness was met 
by a chilling coolness and indifference on the attorney's part 
that rendered swaggering absurd. He pretended to be writ- 
ing at a paper when the captain entered. " Pray sit down, 
sir," said he, " and I will attend to your little affair in a mo- 
ment. Mr. Poe, get the release papers, if you please ;" and 
then he fell to writing again. 

Poe having produced those papers, his chief calculated the 
amount of two thousand pounds stock at the rate of the day, 
and asked Captain Osborne whether he would take the sum in 
a check upon the bankers, or whether he should direct the 
latter to purchase stock to that amount. "One of the late 
Mrs. Osborne's trustees is out of town," he said indifferently, 
" but my client wishes to meet your wishes, and have done 
with the business as quick as possible." 

''Give me a check, sir, " said the captain very surlily 



286 VANITY FAIR, 

" Damn the shillings and halfpence, sir," he added, as the 
lawyer was making out the amount of the draft ; and, flatter- 
ing himself that by this stroke of magnanimity he had put 
the old quiz to the blush, he stalked out of the office with the 
paper in his pocket. 

" That chap will be in jail in two years," Mr. Higgs said to 
Mr. Poe. 

" Won't O. come round, sir, don't you think ?" 

" Won't the monument come round," Mr. Higgs replied. 

" He's going it pretty fast," said the clerk. " He's only 
married a week, and I saw him and some other military chaps 
handing Mrs. Highflyer to her carriage after the play." And 
then another case was called, and Mr. George Osborne 
thenceforth dismissed from these worthy gentlemen's memory. 

The draft was upon our friends Hulker and Bullock, of 
Lombard Street, to whose house, still thinking he was doing 
business, George bent his way, and from whom he received 
his money. Frederick Bullock, Esq., whose yellow face was 
over a ledger, at which sat a demure clerk, happened to be 
in the banking-room when George entered. His yellow face 
turned to a more deadly color when he saw the captain, and 
he slunk back guiltily into the inmost parlor. George was 
too busy gloating over the money (for he had never had such 
a sum before) to mark the countenance or the flight of the 
cadaverous suitor of his sister. 

Fred Bullock told old Osborne of his son's appearance and 
conduct " He came in as bold as brass," said Frederick. 
" He has drawn out every shilling. How long will a few 
hundred pounds last such a chap as that ?" Osborne swore 
with a great oath that he little cared when or how soon he 
spent it. Fred dined every day in Russell Square now. But 
altogether, George was highly pleased with his day's business. 
All his own baggage and outfit was put into a state of speedy 
preparation, and he paid Amelia's purchases with checks on 
his agents, and with the splendor of a lord. 



AMELIA JOINS HER REGIMENT, 



287 



CHAPTER XXVII. 



IN WHICH AMELIA JOINS HER REGIMENT, 




HEN Jos's fine carriage drove up to 
the inn-door at Chatham, the first 
face which Amelia recognized was 
the friendly countenance of Cap- 
tain Dobbin, who had been pacing 
the street for an hour past in ex- 
pectation of his friend's arrival. 
The captain, with shells on his 
frock-coat, and a crimson sash 
and sabre, presented a military 
appearance which made Jos quite 
proud to be able to claim such an 
acquaintance, and the stout civil- 
ian hailed him with a cordiality 
very different from the reception 
which Jos vouchsafed to his 
"~"^^^ friend in Brighton and Bond 

Street. 
Along with the captain was Ensign Stubble, who, as the 
barouche neared the inn, burst out with an exclamation of 
" By Jove ! what a pretty girl !" highly applauding Os- 
borne's choice. Indeed, Amelia, dressed in her wedding- 
pelisse and pink ribbons, with a flush in her face, occa- 
sioned by rapid travel through the open air, looked so fresh 
and pretty as fully to justify the ensign's compliment. Dob- 
bin liked him for making it. As he stepped forward to help 
the lady out of the carriage Stubble saw what a pretty little 
hand she gave him, and what a sweet, pretty little foot came 
tripping down the step. He blushed profusely, and made 
the very best bow of which he was capable ; to which Amelia, 
seeing the number of the — th regiment embroidered on the 
ensign's cap, replied with a blushing smile, and a courtesy on 
her part ; which finished the young ensign on the spot. Dob- 
bin took most kindly to Mr. Stubble from that day, and en- 
couraged him to talk about Amelia in their private walks, 



2S8 VANITY FAIR. 

and at ecch other's quarters. It became the fashion, indeed, 
among all the honest young fellows of the — th to adore and 
admire Mrs. Osborne. Her simple, artless behavior, and mod- 
est kindness of demeanor, won all their unsophisticated hearts ; 
all which simplicity and sweetness are quite impossible to 
describe in print. But who has not beheld these among 
women, and recognized the presence of all sorts of qualities 
in them, even though they say no more to you than that they 
are engaged to dance the next quadrille, or that it is very 
hot weather ? George, always the champion of his regiment, 
rose immensely in the opinion of the youth of the corps by 
his gallantry in marrying the portionless young creature, and 
by his choice of such a pretty, kind partner. 

In the sitting-room which was awaiting the travellers, Ame- 
lia, to her surprise, found a letter addressed to Mrs. Captain 
Osborne. It was a triangular billet, on pink paper, and sealed 
with a dove and an olive branch, and a profusion of light-blue 
sealing-wax, and it was written in a very large though unde- 
cided female hand. 

" It's Peggy O'Dowd's fist," said George, laughing. " I 
know it by the kisses on the seal:" And in fact it was a note 
from Mrs. Major O'Dowd, requesting the pleasure of Mrs. Os- 
borne's company that very evening to a small, friendly party. 
" You must go," George said. " You will make acquaintance 
with the regiment there. O'Dowd goes in command of the 
regiment, and Peggy goes in command of O'Dowd." 

But they had not been for many minutes in the enjoyment 
of Mrs. O'Dowd's letter when the door was flung open, and a 
stout, jolly lady, in a riding-habit, followed by a couple of 
officers of Ours, entered the room. 

" Sure, I couldn't stop till tay-time. Present me, Garge, 
my dear fellow, to your lady. Madam, I'm deloighted to see 
ye, and to present to you me husband, Meejor O'Dowd ;" 
and with this the jolly lady in the riding-habit grasped Ame- 
lia's hand very warmly, and the latter knew at once that the 
lady was before her whom her husband had so often laughed 
at. ' ' You've often heard of me from that husband of yours, ' ' 
said the lady, with great vivacity. 

" You've often heard of her," echoed her husband, the 
major. 

Am.elia answered, smiling, that she had. 

" And small good he's told you of me," Mrs. O'Dowd 
replied, adding that " George was a wicked divvle." 

"That I'll go bail for," said the major, trying to look 
knowing, at which George laughed ; and Mrs. O'Dowd, with 



AMELIA JOINS HER REGIMENT. 



289 



a tap of her whip, told the major to be quiet, and then re- 
quested to be presented in form to Mrs. Captain Osborne. 

" This, my dear," said George with great gravity, " is my 
very good, kind, and excellent friend, Auralia Margaretta, 
otherwise called Peggy." 




" Faith, you're right," interposed the major. 

" Otherwise called Peggy, lady of Major Michael O'Dowd, 
of our regiment, and daughter of Fitzjurld Ber'sford de Burgo 
Malony, of Glenmalony, County Kildare." 

"And Muryan Squeer, Doblin," said the lady with calm 
superiority. 

" And Muryan Square, sure enough," the major whispered. 



290 VANITY FAIR. 

" 'Twas there 3^6 coorted me, meejor dear," theladysaid; 
and the major assented to this as to every other proposition 
which was made generally in company. 

Major O'Dowd, who had served his sovereign in every 
quarter of the world, and had paid for every step in his pro- 
fession by some more than equivalent act of daring and gal- 
lantry, was the most modest, silent, sheep-faced, and meek of 
little men, and as obedient to his wife as if he had been her 
tay-boy. At the mess-table he sat silently, and drank a great 
deal. When full of liquor he reeled silently home. When he 
spoke, it was to agree with everybody on every conceivable 
point ; and he passed through life in perfect ease and good- 
humor. The hottest suns of India never heated his temper, 
and the Walcheren ague never shook it. He walked up to a 
battery with just as much indifference as to a dinner-table ; 
had dined on horse flesh and turtle with equal relish and 
appetite, and had an old mother, Mrs. O'Dowd of O'Dowds- 
town indeed, whom he had never disobeyed, but when he ran 
away and enlisted, and when he persisted in marrying the 
odious Peggy Malony. 

Peggy was one of five sisters, and eleven children of the 
noble house of Glenmalony ; but her husband, though her 
own cousin, was of the mother's side, and so had not the in- 
estimable advantage of being allied to the Malonys, whom 
she believed to be the most famous family in the world. Hav- 
ing tried nine seasons at Dublin and two at Bath and Chel- 
tenham, and not finding a partner for life, Miss Malony or- 
dered her cousin Mick to marry her when she was about thirty- 
three years of age ; and the honest fellow obeying, carried her 
off to the West Indies, to preside over the ladies of the — th 
regiment, into which he had just exchanged. 

Before Mrs. O'Dowd was half an hour in Amelia's (or indeed 
in anybody else's) company this amiable lady told all her 
birth and pedigree to her new friend. " My dear," said she 
good-naturedly, " it was my intention that Garge should be a 
brother of my own, and my sister Glorvina would have suited 
him entirely. But as bygones are bygones, and he was en- 
gaged to yourself, why, I'm determined to take you as a sister 
instead, and to look upon you as such, and to love you as one 
of the family. Faith, you've got such a nice, good-natured 
face and way widg you that I'm sure we'll agree, and that 
you'll be an addition to our family anyway." 

'* 'Deed and she will," said O'Dowd, with an approving air ; 
and Amelia felt herself not a little amused and grateful to-be 
thus suddenly introduced to so large a party of relations. 



AMELIA JOINS ITER REGIMENT. 291 

** We're all good fellows here," the major's lady continued. 
** There's not a regiment in the service where you'll find a 
more united society nor a more agreeable mess-room. There's 
no quarrelling, bickering, slandthering, nor small talk among 
us. We all love each other." 

" Especially Mrs. Magenis," said George, laughing. 

** Mrs. Captain Magenis and me has made up, though her 
treatment of me would bring me gray hairs with sorrow to 
the grave." 

" And you with such a beautiful front of black, Peggy, my 
dear," the major cried. 

" Hould your tongue, Mick, you booby. Them husbands 
are always in the way, Mrs. Osborne, my dear ; and as for my 
Mick, I often tell him he should never open his mouth but to 
give the word of command, or to put meat and drink into it. 
I'll tell you about the regiment, and warn you when we're 
alone. Introduce me to your brother now ; sure he's a mighty 
fine man, and reminds me of me cousin, Dan Malony (Malony 
of Ballymalony, my dear, you know, who mar'ied Ophalia 
Scully, of Oystherstown, own cousin to Lord Poldoody). Mr. 
Sedley, sir, I'm deloighted to be made known te ye. I sup- 
pose you'll dine at the mess to-day. (Mind that divvle of 
a docther, Mick, and whatever ye du, keep yourself sober for 
me party this evening.)" 

" It's the 150th gives us a farewell dinner, my love," inter- 
posed the major, " but we'll easy get a card for Mr. Sedley." 

" Run, Simple (Ensign Simple, of Ours, my dear Amelia. 
I forgot to introjuice him to ye). Run in a hurry with Mrs. 
Major O'Dowd's compliments to Colonel Tavish, and Captain 
Osborne has brought his brother-in-law down, and will bring 
him to the 150th mess at five o'clock sharp — when you and 
I, my dear, will take a snack here, if you like." Before Mrs. 
O'Dowd's speech was concluded the young ensign was trot- 
ting down-stairs on his commission. 

" Obedience is the soul of the army. We will go to our 
duty while Mrs. O'Dowdwill stay and enlighten you, Emmy," 
Captain Osborne said ; and the two gentlemen, taking each a 
wing of the major, walked out with that officer, grinning at 
each other over his head. 

And now having her new friend to herself, the impetuous 
Mrs. O'Dowd proceeded to pour out such a quantity of infor- 
mation as no poor little woman's memory could ever tax itself 
to bear. She told Amelia a thousand particulars relative to 
the very numerous family of which the amazed young lady 
found herself a member. " Mrs. Heavytop, the colonel's wife, 



292 VANITY FAIR. 

died in Jamaica of the yellow fever and a broken heart com- 
boined, for the horrud old colonel, with ahead as bald as a 
cannon-ball, was making sheep's eyes at a half-caste girl there. 
Mrs. Magenis, though without education, was a good woman, 
but she had the divvle's tongue, and would cheat her own 
mother at whist. Mrs. Captain Kirk must turn up her lobster 
eyes forsooth at the idea of an honest round game (wherein 
me fawther, as pious a man as ever went to church, me uncle 
Dane Malony, and our cousin the bishop, took a hand at loo, 
or whist, every night of their lives). Nayther of 'em's goin' 
with the regiment this time," Mrs. O'Dowd added. " Fanny 
Magenis stops with her mother, who sells small coal and pota- 
toes, most likely, in Islington-town, hard by London, though 
she's always bragging of her father's ships, and pointing them 
out to us as they go up the river ; and Mrs. Kirk and her 
children will stop here in Bethesda Place, to be nigh to her 
favorite preacher, Dr. Ramshorn. Mrs. Bunny's in an inter- 
esting situation — faith, and she always is, then — and has given 
the lieutenant seven already. And Ensign Posky's wife, who 
joined two months before you, my dear, has quarl'd with Tom 
Posky a score of times, till you can hear 'm all over the bar'ck 
(they say they're come to broken pleets, and Tom never ac- 
counted for his black oi), and she'll go back to her mother, 
v^ho keeps a ladies' siminar)^ at Richmond — bad luck to her 
for running away from it ! Where did ye get your finishing, 
my dear ? I had moin, and no expince spared, at Madame 
Flanahan's, at Ilyssus Grove, Booterstown, near Dublin, wid 
a marchioness to teach us the true Parisian pronunciation, and 
a retired mejor-general of the French service to put us through 
the exercise." 

Of this incongruous family our astonished Amelia found 
herself all of a sudden a member, with Mrs. O'Dowd as an 
elder sister. She was presented to her other female relations 
at tea-time, on whom, as she was quiet, good-natured, and not 
too handsome, she made rather an agreeable impression until 
the arrival of the gentlemen from the mess of the 150th, who 
all admired her so that her sisters began, of course, to find 
fault with her. 

" I hope Osborne has sown his wild oats,'' said Mrs. Mage- 
nis to Mrs. Bunny. " If a reformed rake makes a good hus- 
band, sure it's she will have the fine chance with Garge,*' 
Mrs. O'Dowd remarked to Posky, who had lost her position 
as bride in the regiment, and was quite angry with the usu rper. 
And as for Mrs. Kirk : that disciple of Dr. Ramshorn put 
one or two leading professional questions to Amelia, to see 



AMELIA JOINS HER REGIMENT. 293 

whether she was awakened, whether she was a professing 
Christian, and so forth, and finding, from the simplicity of 
Mrs. Osborne's replies, that she was yet in utter darkness, put 
into her hands three little penny books with pictures, viz., the 
*' Howling Wilderness," the " Washerwoman of Wandsworth 
Common," and the " British Soldier's Best Bayonet," which, 
bent upon awakening her before she slept, Mrs. Kirk begged 
Amelia to read that night ere she went to bed. 

But all the men, like good fellows as they were, rallied 
round their comrade's pretty wife, and paid her their court 
with soldierly gallantry. She had a little triumph, which 
flushed her spirits and made her eyes sparkle. George was 
proud of her popularity, and pleased with the manner (which 
was very gay and graceful, though naive and a little timid) 
with which she received the gentlemen's attentions and an- 
swered their compliments. And he in his uniform — how 
much handsomer he was than any man in the room ! She 
felt that he was affectionately watching her, and glowed with 
pleasure at his kindness. " I will make all his friends wel- 
come," she resolved i-n her heart. " I will love all as I love 
him. I will always try and be gay and good-humored, and 
make his home happy." 

The regiment indeed adopted her with acclamation. The 
captains approved, the lieutenants applauded, the ensigns ad- 
mired. Old Cutler, the doctor, made one or two jokes, which, 
being professional, need not be repeated ; and Cackle, the 
Assistant M.D. of Edinburgh, condescended to examine her 
upon leeterature, and tried her with his three best French 
quotations. Young Stubble went about from man to man 
whispering, "Jove! isn't she a pretty gal ?" and nevertook 
his eyes off her except when the negus came in. 

As for Captain Dobbin, he never so much as spoke to her 
during the whole evening. But he and Captain Porter of the 
150th took home Jos to the hotel, who was in a very maudlin 
state, and had told his tiger-hunt story with great effect, both 
at the mess-table and at the soiree, to Mrs. O'Dowd in her 
turban and bird of paradise. Having put the collector into 
the hands of his servant, Dobbin loitered about, smoking his 
cigar before the inn door. George had meanwhile very care- 
fully shawled his wife, and brought her away from Mrs. 
O'Dowd's after a general hand-shaking from the young offi- 
cers, who accompanied her to the fly, and cheered that vehicle 
as it drove off. So Amelia gave Dobbin her little hand as 
she got out of the carriage, and rebuked him smilingly for not 
having taken any notice of her all night. 



294 VANITY FAIR. 

The captain continued that deleterious amusement of smok- 
ing long after the inn and the street were gone to bed. He 
watched the lights vanish from George's sitting-room windows, 
and shine out in the bedroom close at hand. It was almost 
morning when he returned to his own quarters. He could 
hear the cheering from the ships in the river, where the trans- 
ports were already taking in their cargoes preparatory to drop- 
ping: down the Thames. 



AMELIA INVADES THE LOW COUNTRIES. 



29s 



CHAPTER XXVIII. 



IN WHICH AMELIA INVADES THE LOW COUNTRIES. 



HE regiment with its officers 
is was to be transported in 
ships provided by his maj- 
esty's government for the 
occasion ; and in two days 
after the festive assembly 
at Mrs. O'Dowd's apart- 
ments, in the midst of 
cheering from all the East 
India ships in the river, and 
the military on shore, the 
band playing " God save 
the King," the officers wav- 
ing their hats, and the 
crews hurrahing gallantly, 
the transports went down 
the river and proceeded un- 
der convoy to Ostend. 
Meanwhile the gallant Jos 
had agreed to escort his 
sister and the major's wife, 
the bulk of whose goods and 
chattels, including the fa- 
mous bird of paradise and 
turban, were with the regimental baggage ; so that our two 
heroines drove pretty much unencumbered to Ramsgate, 
where there were plenty of packets plying, in one of which they 
had a speedy passage to Ostend. 

That period of Jos's life which now ensued was so full of 
incident that it served him for conversation for many years 
after, and even the tiger-hunt story was put aside for more 
stirring narratives which he had to tell about the great cam- 
paign of Waterloo. As soon as he had agreed to escort his 
sister abroad it was remarked that he ceased shaving his upper 
lip. At Chatham he followed the parades and drills with great 




296 VANITY FAIR. 

assiduity. He listened with the utmost attention to the con- 
versation of his brother officers (as he called them in after- 
days sometimes), and learned as many military names as 
he could. In these studies the excellent Mrs. O'Dowd was of 
great assistance to him ; and on the day, finally, w^hen they em- 
barked on board the Lovely Rose, which was to carry them 
to their destination, he made his appearance in a braided 
frock-coat and duck trousers, with a foraging cap ornamented 
with a smart gold band. Having his carriage with him, and 
informing everybody on board confidentially that he was 
going to join the Duke of Wellington's army, folks mistook 
him for a great personage, a commissary-general, or a gov- 
ernment courier at the very least. 

He suffered hugely on the voyage, during which the ladies 
Avere likewise prostrate ; but Amelia was brought to life again 
as the packet made Ostend, by the sight of the transports 
conveying her regiment, which entered the harbor almost at 
the same time with the Lovely Rose. Jos w^ent in a collapsed 
state to an inn, while Captain Dobbin escorted the ladies, and 
then busied himself in freeing Jos's carriage and luggage 
from the ship and the custom-house, for Mr. Jos was at present 
without a servant, Osborne's man and his own pampered me- 
nial having conspired together at Chatham, and refused point- 
blank to cross the water. This revolt, which came very sud- 
denly, and on the last day, so alarmed Mr. Sedley, junior, that 
he was on the point of giving up the expedition, but Captain 
Dobbin (who made himself immensely officious in the busi- 
ness, Jos said) rated him and laughed at him soundly ; the 
mustachios were grown in advance, and Jos finally was per- 
suaded to embark. In place of the well-bred end well-fed Lon- 
don domestics, who could only speak English, Dobbin pro- 
cured for Jos's party a swarthy little Belgian servant w^ho 
could speak no language at all, but who, by his bustling be- 
havior, and by invariably addressing Mr. Sedley as " My lord," 
speedily acquired that gentleman's favor. Times are altered 
at Ostend now ; of the Britons who go thither very few look 
like lords, or act like those members of our hereditary aristoc- 
racy. They seem for the most part shabby in attire, dingy of 
linen, lovers of billiards and brandy and cigars and greasy 
ordinaries. 

But it may be said as a rule that every Englishman in the 
Duke of Wellington's army paid his way. The remembrance 
of such a fact surely becom.es a nation of shop-keepers. It was 
a blessing for a commerce-loving country to be overrun by 
such an army of customers, and to have such creditable war- 



AMELIA INVADES THE LOW COUNTRIES. 297 

riors to feed. And the country which they came to protect 
is not military. For a long period of history they have let 
other people fight there. When the present writer went to 
survey with eagle glance the field of Waterloo, we asked the 
conductor of the diligence, a portly, warlike-looking veteran, 
whether he had been at the battle. '' Pas si bete'' — such an 
answer and sentiment as no Frenchman would own to — was 
his reply. But, on the other hand, the postilion who drove 
us was a inscoitnt^ a son of some bankrupt imperial general, 
who accepted a pennyworth of beer on the road. The moral 
is surely a good one. 

This flat, flourishing, easy country never could have looked 
more rich and prosperous than in that opening summer of 1815, 
when its green fields and quiet cities were enlivened by mul- 
tiplied red-coats ; when its wide chaussees swarmed with bril- 
liant English equipages; when its great canal-boats, gliding by 
rich pastures and pleasant, quaint old villages ; by old cha- 
teaux lying among old trees, were all crowded with well-to- 
do English travellers ; when the soldier who drank at the vil- 
lage inn, not only drank, but paid his score, and Donald, the 
Highlander,* billeted in the Flemish farm-house, rocked the 
baby's cradle, while Jean and Jeannette were out getting in 
the hay. As our painters are bent on military subjects just 
now, I throw out this as a good subject for the pencil, to illus- 
trate the principle of an honest English war. All looked as 
brilliant and harmless as a Hyde Park review. Meanwhile 
Napoleon, screened behind his curtain of frontier-fortresses, 
v/as preparing for the outbreak which was to drive all these 
orderly people into fury and blood, and lay so many of them 
low. 

Everybody had such a perfect feeling of confidence in the 
leader (for the resolute faith which the Duke of Wellington 
had inspired in the whole English nation was at intense as 
that more frantic enthusiasm with which at one time the 
French regarded Napoleon), the country seemed in so perfect 
a state of orderly defence, and the help at hand in case of need 
so near and overwhelming, that alarm was unknown, and our 
travellers, among whom two were naturally of a very timid 
sort, were, like all the other multiplied English tourists, en- 
tirely at ease. The famous regiment, with so many of whose 
officers we have made acquaintance, was drafted in canal- 
boats to Bruges and Ghent, thence to march to Brussels. Jos 
accompanied the ladies in the public boats, the which all old 

* This incident is mentioned in Mr. Gleig's " Story of the Battle of Wa 
terloo." 



298 



VANITY FAIR. 



travellers in Flanders must remember for the luxury and ac- 
commodation they afforded. So prodigiously good was the 
eating and drinking on board these sluggish but most com- 
fortable vessels that there are legends extant of an English 
traveller who, coming to Belgium for a week, and travelling in 
one of these boats, was so delighted with the fare there that he 
went backward and forward from Ghent to Bruges perpetu- 
ally until the railroads were invented, when he drowned him- 
self on the last trip of the passage-boat. Jos's death was not 
to be of this sort, but his comfort was exceeding, and Mrs. 
O'Dowd insisted that he only wanted her sister Glorvina to 
make his happiness complete. He sat on the roof of the cabin 
all day drinking Flemish beer, shouting for Isidor, his ser- 
vant, and talking gallantly to the ladies. 




His courage was prodigious. " Boney attack us P' he cried. 
** My dear creature, my poor Emmy, don't be frightened. 
There's no danger. The allies will be in Paris in two months, 
I tell you ; when I'll take you to dine in the Palais Royal, 
by Jove ! There are three hundred thousand Rooshians, I 
tell you, now entering France by Mayence and the Rhine — 
three hundred thousand under Wittgenstein and Barclay de 
Tolly, my poor love. You don't know military affairs, my 
dear. I do, and I tell you there's no infantry in France can 



AMELIA INVADES THE LOW COUNTRIES. 299 

Stand against Rooshian infantry, and no general of Boney's 
that's fit to hold a candle to Wittgenstein. Then there are 
the Austrians ; they are five hundred thousand if a man, and 
they are within ten marches of the frontier by this time, 
under Schwartzenberg and Prince Charles. Then there are 
the Prooshians under the gallant Prince Marshal. Show me 
a cavalry chief like him now that Murat is gone. Hey, Mrs. 
O'Dowd ? Do you think our little girl here need be afraid ? 
Is there any cause for fear, Isidor ? Hey, sir ? Get some more 
beer." 

Mrs. O'Dowd said that her " Glorvina was not afraid of 
any man alive, let alone a Frenchman," and tossed off a glass 
of beer with a wink which expressed her liking for the bev- 
erage. 

Having frequently been in presence of the enemy, or, in oth- 
«r words, faced the ladies at Cheltenham and Bath, our friend 
the collector had lost a great deal of his pristine timidity, 
and was now, especially when fortified with liquor, as talka- 
tive as might be. He was rather a favorite with the regi- 
ment, treating the young officers with sumptuosity, and 
amusing them by his military airs. And as there is one well- 
known regiment of the army which travels with a goat head- 
ing the column, while another is led by a deer, George said, 
with respect to his brother-in-law, that his regiment marched 
with an elephant. 

Since Amelia's introduction to the regiment George be- 
gan to be rather ashamed of some of the company to which he 
had been forced to present her, and determined, as he told 
Dobbin (with what satisfaction to the latter it need not be 
said), to exchange into some better regiment soon, and to 
get his wife away from those damned vulgar women. But 
this vulgarity of being ashamed of one's society is much more 
common among men than women (except very great ladies of 
fashion, who, to be sure, indulge in it) ; and Mrs. Amelia, a 
natural and unaffected person, had none of that artificial 
shamefacedness which her husband mistook for delicacy on 
his own part. Thus Mrs. O'Dowd had a cock's plume in her- 
hat, and a very large " repayther" on her stomach, which she 
used to ring on all occasions, narrating now it had been pre- 
sented to her by her fawther, as she stipt into the car'ge after 
her mar'ge, and these ornaments, with other outward pecu- 
liarities of the major's wife, gave excruciating agonies to Cap- 
tain Osborne, when his wife and the major's came in contact ; 
whereas Amelia was only amused by the honest lady's eccen- 
tricities, and not in the least ashamed of her company. 



300 VANITY FAIR, 

As they made that well-knovvn journey, which almost every 
Englishman of middle rank has travelled since, there might 
have been more ins.tructive, but few more entertaining, com- 
panions than Mrs. Major O'Dowd. " Talk about kenal boats, 
my dear ! Ye should see the kenal boats between Dublin and 
Ballinasloe. It's there the rapid travelling is ; and the beau- 
tiful cattle ! Sure me fawther got a goold medal (and his 
excellency himself eat a slice of it, and said never was finer 
mate in his loif) for a four-year-old heifer, the like of which 
ye never saw in this country any day." And Jos owned with a 
sigh, " that for good streaky beef, really mingled with fat and 
lean, there was no country like England." 

" Except Ireland, where all your best mate comes from," 
said the major's lady, proceeding, as is not unusual with pa- 
triots of her nation to make comparisons greatly in favor of 
her own country. The idea of comparing the market at 
Bruges with those of Dublin, although she had suggested it 
herself, caused immense scorn and derision'on her part. " I'll 
thank ye to tell me what they mean by that old gazabo on 
the top of the market-place," said she, in a burst of ridicule 
fit to have brought the old tower down. The place was full 
of English soldiery as they passed. English bugles woke 
them in the morning ; at nightfall they went to bed to the 
note of the British fife and drum ; all the country and Europe 
was in arms, and the greatest event of history pending ; and 
honest Peggy O'Dowd, whom it concerned as well as another, 
went on prattling about Ballinafad, and the horses in the sta- 
bles at Glenmalony, and the clar't drunk there, and Jos Sed- 
ley interposed about curry and rice at Dumdum, and Amelia 
thought about her husband, and how best she should show her 
love for him — as if these were the great topics of the world. 

Those who like to lay down the history-book, and to specu- 
late upon what might have happened in the world but for 
the fatal occurrence of what actually did take place (a most 
puzzling, amusing, ingenious, and profitable kind of medita- 
tion), have no doubt often thought to themselves what a 
specially bad time Napoleon took to come back from Elba, 
and to let loose his eagle from Gulf San Juan to Notre Dame. 
The historians on our side tell us that the armies of the allied 
powers were all providentially on a war footing, and ready to 
bear down at a moment's notice upon the Elban emperor. 
The august jobbers assembled at Vienna, and carving out 
the kingdoms of Europe according to their wisdom, had 
such causes of quarrel among themselves as might have set 



AMELIA INVADES THE LOW COUNTRIES. 301 

the armies which had overcome Napoleon to fight against 
each other but for the return of the object of unanimous hatred 
and fear. This monarch had an army in full force because 
he had jobbed to himself Poland, and was determined to 
keep it ; another had robbed half Saxony, and was bent upon 
maintaining his acquisition ; Italy was the object of a third's 
solicitude. Each was protesting against the rapacity of the 
other ; and could the Corsican but have w^aited in prison un- 
til all these parties were by the ears, he might have returned 
and reigned unmolested. But what would have become of our 
story and all our friends then ? If all the drops in it were 
dried up, what would become of the sea ? 

In the mean while the business of life and living, and the 
pursuits of pleasure, especially, went on as if no end were to 
be expected to them, and no enemy in front. When our 
travellers arrived at Brussels, in which their regiment was 
quartered — a great piece of good fortune, as all said — they 
found themselves in one of the gayest and most brilliant little 
capitals in Europe, and where all the Vanity Fair booths 
were laid out with the most tempting liveliness and splendor. 
Gambling was here in profusion, and dancing in plenty ; 
feasting was there to fill with delight that great gourmand of 
a Jos ; there was a theatre where a miraculous Catalani was 
delighting all hearers ; beautiful rides, all enlivened with 
martial splendor ; a rare old city, with strange costumes and 
wonderful architecture, to delight the eyes of little Amelia, 
who had never before seen a foreign country, and fill her 
with charming surprises ; so that now and for a few weeks' 
space, in a fine, handsome lodging, whereof the expenses were 
borne by Jos and Osborne, who was flush of money and full 
of kind attentions to his wife — for about a fortnight, I say, 
daring which her honeymoon ended, Mrs. Amelia was as 
pleased and happy as any little bride out of England. 

Every day during this happy time there was novelty and 
amusement for all parties. There was a church to see, or a 
picture-gallery — there was a ride, or an opera. The bands of 
the regiments were making music at all hours. The greatest 
folks of England walked in the park — there was a perpetual 
military festival. George, taking out his wife to a new jaunt 
or junket every night, was quite pleased with himself, as usual, 
and swore he was becoming quite a domestic character. And 
a jaunt or a junket with him ! Was it not enough to set this 
little heart beating with joy ? Her letters home to her mother 
were filled with delight and gratitude at this season. Her 
husband bade her buy laces, millinery, jewels, and gimcracks 



302 VANITY FAIR. 

of all sorts. Oh, he was the kindest, best, and most generous 
of men ! 

The sight of the very great company of lords and ladies and 
fashionable persons who thronged the town, and appeared in 
every public place, filled George's truly British soul with in- 
tense delight. They flung ofi that happy frigidity and insolence 
of demeanor which occasionally characterizes the great at 
home, and appearing in numberless public places, conde- 
scended to mingle with the rest of the company whom they 
met there. One night at a party given by the general of the 
division to which George's regiment belonged, he had the 
honor of dancing with Lady Blanche Thistlewood, Lord Bare- 
acres' daughter ; he bustled for ices and refreshments for the 
two noble ladies ; he pushed and squeezed for Lady Bare- 
acres' carriage ; he bragged about the countess when he got 
home in a way which his own father could not have surpassed. 
He called upon the ladies the next day ; he rode by their side 
in the park ; he asked their party to a great dinner at a res- 
taurateur's, and was quite wild with exultation when they 
agreed to come. Old Bareacres, who had not much pride 
and a large appetite, would go for a dinner anywhere. 

" I hope there will be no women besides our own party," 
Lady Bareacres said, after reflecting upon the invitation which 
had been made, and accepted with too much precipitancy. 

" Gracious heaven, mamma, you don't suppose the man 
would bring his wife?" shrieked Lady Blanche, who had 
been languishing in George's arms in the newly-imported 
waltz for hours the night before. "The men are bearable, 
but their women — " 

" Wife, just married, dev'lish pretty woman, I hear," the 
old earl said. 

" Well, my dear Blanche," said the mother, " I suppose as 
papa wants to go, we must go ; but we need'nt know them in 
England, you know." And so, determined to cut their new 
acquaintance in Bond Street, these great folks went to eat his 
dinner at Brussels, and condescending to make him pay for 
their pleasure, showed their dignity by making his wife un- 
comfortable, and carefully excluding her from the conversa- 
tion. This is a species of dignity in which the high-bred Brit- 
ish female reigns supreme. To watch the behavior of a fine 
lady to other and humbler women is a very good sport for a 
philosophical frequenter of Vanity Fair. 

This festival, on which honest George spent a great deal of 
money, was the very dismalest of all the entertainments 
which Amelia had in her honeymoon. She wrote the most 




Mrs. O'Dowd at the Plower Market. 



AMELIA INVADES THE LOW COUNTRIES. 303 

piteous accounts of the feast home to her mamma ; how the 
Countess of Bareacres would not answer when spoken to ; how 
Lady Blanche stared at her with her eye-glass ; and what a 
rage Captain Dobbin was in at their behavior ; and how my 
lord, as they came away from the feast, asked to see the bill, 
and pronounced it a d — ■ bad dinner, and d — dear. But though 
Amelia told all these stories, and wrote home regarding her 
guests' rudeness and her own discomfiture, old Mrs. Sedley 
was mightily pleased, nevertheless, and talked about Emmy's 
friend, the Countess of Bareacres, with such assiduity that the 
news how his son was entertaining peers and peeresses 
actually came to Osborne's ears in the city. 

Those who know the present Lieutenant-General Sir George 
Tufto, K.C.B., and have seen him, as they may on most days 
in the season, padded and in stays, strutting down Pall Mall 
with a rickety swagger on his high-heeled lacquered boots, leer- 
ing under the bonnets of passers-by, or riding a showy chest- 
nut, and ogling broughams in the parks — those who know 
the present Sir George Tufto would hardly recognize the dar- 
ing peninsular and Waterloo officer. He has thick curling 
brown hair and black eyebrows now, and his whiskers are of 
the deepest purple. He was light-haired and bald in 1815, 
and stouter in the person and in the limbs, which especially 
have shrunk very much of late. When he was about seventy 
years of age (he is now nearly eighty) his hair, which was very 
scarce and quite white, suddenly grew thick and brown and 
curly, and his whiskers and eyebrows took their present color. 
Ill-natured people say that his chest is all wool, and that his 
hair, because it never grows, is a wig. Tom Tufto, with whose 
father he quarrelled ever so many years ago, declares that 
Mademoiselle de Jaisey, of the French theatre, pulled his grand- 
papa's hair off in the green-room ; but Tom is notoriously 
spiteful and jealous ; and the general's wig has nothing to do 
with our story. 

One day, as some of our friends of the — th were sauntering 
in the flower-market of Brussels, having been to see the Hotel 
de Ville, which Mrs. Major O'Dowd declared was not near so 
large or handsome as her fawther's mansion of Glenmalony, 
an officer of rank, with an orderly behind him, rode up to the 
market, and descending from his horse, came among the flow- 
ers and selected the very finest bouquet which money could 
buy. The beautiful bundle being tied up in a paper, the offi- 
cer remounted, giving the nosegay into the charge of his mili- 
tary groom, who carried it with a grin, following his chief, 
who rode away in great state and self-satisfaction. 



304 VANITY FAIR. 

" You should see the flowers at Glenmalony," Mrs. O'Dowd 
was remarking. " Me fawther has three Scotch garners with 
nine helpers. We have an acre of hot-houses, and pines as 
common as pays in the sayson. Our greeps weighs six pounds 
every bunch of 'em, and, upon me honor and conscience, I 
think our magnolias is as big as tay-kettles." 

Dobbin, who never used to " draw out" Mrs. O'Dowd as 
that wicked Osborne delighted in doing (much to Amelia's 
terror, who implored him to spare her), fell back in the crowd, 
crowing and sputtering until he reached a safe distance, when 
he exploded among the astonished market-people with shrieks 
of yelling laughter. 

" Hwhat's that gawky giggling about ?" said Mrs. O'Dowd. 
" Is it his nose bleedn ? He always used to say 'twas his nose 
bleedn, till he must have pomped all the blood out of 'am. 
An't the magnolias at Glenmalony as big as tay-kettles, 
O'Dowd?" 

" 'Deed then they are, and bigger, Peggy," the major said. 
When the conversation was interrupted in the manner stated 
by the arrival of the officer who purchased the bouquet. 

" Devilish fine horse — who is it ?" George asked. 
" You should see me brother Molloy Malony's horse. Molas- 
ses, that won the cop at the Curragh," the major's wife was 
exclaiming, and was continuing the family history when her 
husband interrupted her by saying : 

" It's General Tufto, who commands the cavalry di- 
vision," adding, quietly, " he and I were both shot in the 
same leg at Talavera. " 

** Where you got your step," said George with a laugh. 
" General Tufto ! Then, my dear, the Crawleys are come." 

Amelia's heart fell — she knew not why. The sun did not 
seem to shine so bright. The tall old roofs and gables looked 
less picturesque all of a sudden, though it was a brilliant sun- 
set and one of the brightest and most beautiful days at the end 
of Mav. 



BRUSSELS, 



3^5 



CHAPTER XXIX 



BRUSSELS. 




'^''''mmm 



R. JOS had hired a pair of 
horses for his open carriage, 
with which catle, and the smart 
London vehicle, he made a very 
tolerable figure in the drives 
about Brussels. George pur- 
chased a horse for his private 
riding, and he and Captain 
Dobbin would often accompany 
the carriage in which Jos and 
his sister took daily excursions 
of pleasure. They went out 
that day in the park for their 
accustomed diversion, and 
there, sure enough, George's 
remark with regard to the ar- 
rival of Rawdon Crawley and his wife proved to be correct. 
In the midst of a little troop of horsemen, consisting of some 
of the ver}^ greatest persons in Brussels, Rebecca was seen in 
the prettiest and tightest of riding habits, mounted on a 
beautiful little Arab, which she rode to perfection (having 
acquired the art at Queen's Crawley, where the Jaronet, Mr. 
Pitt, and Rawdon himself had given her many lessons), and by 
the side of the gallant General Tufto. 

" Sure it's the juke himself," cried Mrs. '\Iajor O'Dowd to 
Jos, who began to blush violently ; " and that's Lord L^xbridge 
on the bay. How elegant he looks ! ]Me brother, Molloy Ma- 
lony, is as like him as two peas." 

Rebecca did not make for the carriage ; but as soon as 
she perceived her old acquaintance Amelia seated in it, ac- 
knowledged her presence by a gracious word and smile, and 
^by kissing and shaking her fingers playfully in the direction 
of the vehicle. Then she resumed her conversation with Gen- 
eral Tufto, who asked " who the fat officer was in the gold- 
laced cap ?" on which Becky replied " that he was an officer 



306 VANITY FAIR. 

in the East Indian service." But Rawdon Crawley rode out 
of the ranks of his company, and came up and shook hands 
heartily with Amelia, and said to Jos, " Well, old boy, how 
are you ?" and stared in Mrs. O'Dowd's face and at the black 
cock's feathers until she began to think she had made a con- 
quest of him. 

George, who had been delayed behind, rode up almost im- 
mediately with Dobbin, and they touched their caps to the 
august personages, among whom Osborne at once perceived 
Mrs. Crawley. He was delighted to see Rawdon leaning 
over his carriage familiarly and talking to Amelia, and met 
the aide-de-camp's cordial greeting with more than corre- 
sponding warmth. The nods between Rawdon and Dobbin 
were of the very faintest specimens of politeness. 

Crawley told George where they were stopping, with General 
Tufto at the Hotel du Pare, and George made his friend prom- 
ise to come speedily to Osborne's own residence. " Sorry I 
hadn't seen you three days ago," George said. " Had a din- 
ner at the restaurateur's — rather a nice thing. Lord Bare- 
acres and the countess and Lady Blanche were good enough 
to dine with us — wish we'd had you." Having thus let his 
friend know his claims to be a man of fashion, Osborne parted 
from Rawdon, who followed the august squadron down an 
alley into which they entered, while George and Dobbin re- 
sumed their places, one on each side of Amelia's carriage. 

" How^ well the juke looked," Mrs. O'Dowd remarked ! 
" The Wellesleys and Malonys are related ; but, of course, 
poor I would never dream of introjucing myself unless his 
grace thought proper to remember our family tie." 

" He's a great soldier," Jos said, much more at ease now 
the great man was gone. " Was there ever a battle won like 
Salamanca ? Hey, Dobbin ? But w^here was it he learned 
his art ? In India, my boy ! The jungle's the school for a 
general, mark me that. I knew him myself, too, Mrs. O'Dowd ; 
we both of us danced the same evening with Miss Cutler, 
daughter of Cutler of the artillery, and a devilish fine girl, 
at Dumdum." 

The apparition of the great personages held them all in 
talk during the drive and at dinner, and until the hour came 
when they were all to go to the opera. 

It was almost like old England. The house was filled with 
familiar British faces and those toilets for which the Brit- 
ish female has long been celebrated. Mrs. O'Dowd's was 
not the least splendid among these, and she had a curl on her 
forehead, and a set of Irish diamonds and Cairngorms, which 



BRUSSELS. 



307 



outshone all the decorations in the house, in her notion. Hef 
presence used to excruciate Osborne ; but go she would upon 
all parties of pleasure on which she heard her young friends 
were bent. It never entered into her thought but that they 
must be charmed with her company. 

" She's been useful to you, my dear," George said to his 
wife, whom he could leave alone with less scruple when she 
had this society. " But what a comfort it is that Rebecca's 
come ! you will have her for a friend, and we may get rid now 
of this damn'd Irishwoman." To this Amelia did not an- 
swer yes or no ; and how do we know what her thoughts 
were ? 

The coiip-d' ceil of the Brussels opera-house did not strike 
Mrs. O'Dowd as being so fine as the theatre in Fishamble 




Street, Dublin, nor was French music at all equal, in her opin- 
ion, to the melodies of her native country. She favored her 



3oS VANITY FAIR. 

friends with these and other opinions in a very loud tone of 
voice, and tossed about a great clattering fan she sported with 
the most splendid complacency. 

" Who is that wonderful woman with Amelia, Rawdon, 
love?" said a lady in an opposite box (who, almost always 
civil to her husband in private, was more fond than ever of 
him in company). 

' ' Don 't you see that creature with a yellow thing in her tur- 
ban, and a red satin gown, and a great watch ?" 

" Near the pretty little woman in white ?" asked a middle- 
aged gentleman seated by the querist's side, with orders in his 
button, and several under- waistcoats, and a great, choky, white 
stock. 

" That pretty woman in white is Amelia, general ; you are 
remarking all the pretty women, you naughty man." 

*' Only one, begad, in the world !" said the general, de- 
lighted, and the lady gave him a tap with a large bouquet 
which she had. 

" Bedad it's him," said Mrs. O'Dowd ; "and that's the 
very bokay he bought in the Marshy aux Flures !" and when 
Rebecca, having caught her friend's eye, performed the little 
hand-kissing operation once more, Mrs. Major O'Dowd, taking 
the compliment to herself, returned the salute with a gracious 
smile, which sent that unfortunate Dobbin shrieking out of the 
box again. 

At the end of the act George was out of the box in a mo- 
ment, and he was even going to pay his respects to Rebecca 
in her loge. He met Crawley in the lobby, however, where 
they exchanged a few sentences upon the occurrences of the 
last fortnight. 

" You found my check all right at the agent's?" George 
said, with a knowing air. 

" All right, my boy," Rawdon answered. " Happy to give 
you your revenge. Governor come round ?" 

" Not yet, " said George, " but he will ; and you know I've 
some private fortune through my mother. Has aunty re- 
lented ?" 

" Sent me twenty pound, damned old screw. When shall 
we have a meet ? The general dines out on Tuesday. Can't 
you come Tuesday ? I say, make Sedley cut off his mustache. 
What the devil does a civilian mean with a mustache and those 
infernal frogs to his coat ! By-by, Try and come on Tues- 
day." And Rawdon was going off with two brilliant young 
gentlemen of fashion, who were, like himself, on the staff of 
a general officer. 



BRUSSELS. 309 

George was only half pleased to be asked to dinner on that 
particular day when the general was not to dine. " I will go 
in and pay my respects to your wife," said he ; at which Raw- 
don said, " Hm, as you please," looking very glum, and at 
which the two young officers exchanged knowing glances. 
George parted from them and strutted down the lobby to 
the general's box, the number of which he had carefully 
counted. 

'' Entrez^'' said a clear little voice, and our friend found 
himself in Rebecca's presence, who jumped up, clapped her 
hands together, and held out both of them to George, so 
charmed was she to see him. The general, with the orders 
in his button, stared at the new-comer with a sulky scowl, as 
much as to say, " Who the devil are you ?" 

" My dear Captain George !" cried little Rebecca in an 
ecstasy. " How good of you to come ! The general and I 
were moping together tete-a-tete. General, this is my Captain 
George of whom you heard me talk." 

" Indeed," said the general, with a very small bow ; "of 
what regiment is Captain George ?" 

George mentioned the — th ; how he wished he could have 
said it was a crack cavalry corps. 

" Come home lately from the West Indies, I believe. Not 
seen much service in the late war. Quartered here, Captain 
George ?" — the general went on with killing haughtiness. 

" Not Captain George, you stupid man ; Captain Os- 
borne," Rebecca said. The general all the while was looking 
savagely from one to the other. 

" Captain Osborne, indeed ! Any relation to the L— Os- 
bornes ?" 

" We bear the same arms," George said, as indeed was 
the fact ; Mr. Osborne having consulted with a herald in Long 
Acre, and picked the L — arms out of the peerage, when he 
set up his carriage fifteen years before. The general made 
no reply to this announcement, but took up his opera-glass — 
the double-barrelled lorgnon was not invented in those days 
— and pretended to examine the house ; but Rebecca saw that 
his disengaged eye was working round in her direction, and 
shooting out bloodshot glances at her and George. 

She redoubled in cordiality. "How is dearest Amelia? 
But I needn't ask ; how pretty she looks ! And who is that 
nice good-natured looking creature with her — a flame of 
yours ? Oh, you wicked men ! And there is Mr. Sedley, eat- 
ing ice, I declare ; how he seems to enjoy it ! General, why 
have we not had any ices ?" 



310 VANITY fair: 

" Shall I go and fetch you some ?" said the general, burst- 
ing with wrath. 

*' Let 7ne go, I entreat you," George said. 

" No, I will go to Amelia's box. Dear, sweet girl ! Give 
me your arm, Captain George." And so saying, and with a 
nod to the general, she tripped into the lobby. She gave 
George the queerest, knowingest look when they were togeth- 
er — a look which might have been interpreted, " Don't you 
see the state of affairs, and what a fool I'm making of him ?" 
But he did not perceive it. He was thinking of his own plans, 
and lost in pompous admiration of his own irresistible powers 
of pleasing. 

The curses to which the general gave a low utterance, as 
soon as Rebecca and her conqueror had quitted him, were so 
deep that I am sure no compositor would venture to print them 
were they written down. They came from the general's heart, 
and a wonderful thing it is to think that the human heart is 
capable of generating such produce, and can throw out, as 
occasion demands, such a supply of lust and fury, rage and 
hatred. 

Amelia's gentle eyes, too, had been fixed anxiously on the 
pair whose conduct had so chafed the jealous general ; but 
when Rebecca entered her box she flew to her friend with an 
affectionate rapture which showed itself, in spite of the pub- 
licity of the place ; for she embraced her dearest friend in the 
presence of the whole house, at least in full view of the gen- 
eral's glass, now brought to bear upon the Osborne party. 
Mrs. Rawdon saluted Jos, too, with the kindliest greeting ; 
she admired Mrs. O'Dov/d's large Cairngorm brooch and 
superb Irish diamonds, and wouldn't believe that they were 
not from Golconda direct. She bustled, she chattered, she 
turned and twisted, and smiled upon one, and smirked on an- 
other, all in full view of the jealous opera-glass opposite. 
And when the time for the ballet came (in which there was no 
dancer that went through her grimaces or performed her com- 
edy of action better) she skipped back to her own box, leaning 
on Captain Dobbin's arm this time. No, she would not have 
George's ; he must stay and talk to his dearest, best, little 
Amelia. 

"What a humbug that woman is !" honest old Dobbin 
mumbled to George, when he came back from Rebecca's box, 
whither he had conducted her in perfect silence, ^nd with a 
countenance as glum as an undertaker's. " She writhes and 
twists about like a snake. All the time she was here, didn't you 
see, George, how she was acting at the general over the way .?" 



BRUSSELS. 311 

" Humbug — acting ! Hang it, she's the nicest little woman 
in England," George replied, showing his white teeth and 
giving his ambrosial whiskers a twirl. " You ain't a man 
of the world, Dobb n. Damme, look at her now ; she's talked 
over Tufto in no time. Look how he's laughing ! Gad, 
what a shoulder she has ! Emmy, why didn't you have a 
bouquet ? Everybody has a bouquet." 

" Faith, then, why didn't you boy one ?" Mrs. O'Dowd said, 
and both Amelia and William Dobbin thanked her for this 
timely observation. But beyond this neither of the ladies ral- 
lied. Amelia was overpowered by the flash and the dazzle and 
the fashionable talk of her worldly rival. Even the O'Dowd 
was silent and subdued after Becky's brilliant apparition, and 
scarcely said a word more about Glenmalony all the evening. 

** When do you intend to give up play, George, as you have 
promised me, any time these hundred years ?" Dobbin said to 
his friend a few days after the night at the opera. ' ' When da 
you intend to give up sermonizing?" was the other's reply. 
" What the deuce, man, are you alarmed about? We play 
low ; I won last night. You don't suppose Crawley cheats ? 
With fair play, it comes to pretty much the same thing at the 
year's end." 

" But I don't think he could pay if he lost," Dobbin said ; 
and his advice met with the success which advice usually 
commands. Osborne and Crawley were repeatedly together 
now. General Tufto dined abroad almost constantly. George 
was always welcome in the apartments (very close indeed to 
those of the general) which the aide-de-camp and his wife oc- 
cupied in the hotel. 

Amelia's manners were such when she and George visited 
Crawley and his wife at these quarters that they had very 
nearly come to their first quarrel —that is, George scolded 
his wife violently for her evident unwillingness to go, and the 
high and mighty manner in which she comported herself 
toward Mrs. Crawley, her old friend ; and Amelia did not 
say one single word in reply ; but, with her husband's eye upon 
her, and Rebecca scanning her as she felt, w^as, if possible, 
more bashful and awkward on the second visit which she 
paid to Mrs. Rawdon than on her first call. 

Rebecca was doubly affectionate, of course, and would not 
take notice, in the least, of her friend's coolness. " I think 
Emmy has become prouder since her father's name was in 
the — since Mr. Sedley's viisfortunes,'' Rebecca said, soft- 
ening the phrase charitably for George's ear. 



312 VANITY FAIR. 

" Upon my word, I thought when we were at Brighton she 
was doing me the honor to be jealous of me, and now I sup- 
pose she is scandalized because Rawdon and I and the general 
live together. Why, my dear creature, how could we, with our 
means, live at all but for a friend to share expenses ? And 
do you suppose that Rawdon is not big enough to take care 
of my honor? But I'm very much obliged to Emmy, very," 
Mrs. Rawdon said. 

"Pooh, jealousy!" answered George; "all women are 
jealous." 

" And all men too. Weren't you jealous of General Tufto, 
and the general of you, on the night of the opera ? Why, 
he was ready to eat me for going with you to visit that foolish 
little wife of yours; as if I care a pin for either of you," 
Crawley's wife said with a pert toss of her head. " Will you 
dine here ? The dragon dines with the commander-in-chief. 
Great news is stirring. They say the French have crossed 
the frontier. We shall have a quiet dinner." 

George accepted the invitation, although his wife was a 
little ailing. They were now not quite six weeks mairied. 
Another woman was laughing or sneering at her expense, and 
he not angry. He was not even angry with himself, this good- 
natured fellow. It is a shame, he owned to himself ; but hang 
it, if a pretty woman will throw herself in your way, why, 
what can a fellow do, you know ? I a?ji rather free about 
women, he had often said, smiling and nodding knowingly 
to Stubble and Spooney, and other comrades of the mess- 
table ; and they rather respected him than otherwise for this 
prowess. Next to conquering in war, conquering in love has 
been a source of pride, time out of mind, among men in Van- 
ity Fair, or how should school-boys brag of their amours 
or Don Juan be popular ? 

So Mr. Osborne, having a firm conviction in his own mind 
that he was a woman-killer and destined to conquer, did not 
run counter to his fate, but yielded himself up to it quite com- 
placently. And as Emmy did not say much or plague him 
with her jealousy, but merely became unhappy and pined over 
it miserably in secret, he chose to fancy that she was not sus- 
picious of what all his acquaintance were perfectly aware — 
namely, that he was carrying on a desperate flirtation with 
Mrs. Crawley. He rode with her whenever she was free. He 
pretended regimental business to Amxclia (by which falsehood 
she was not in the least deceived), and consigning his wife to 
solitude or her brother's society, passed his evenings in the 
Crawleys' company, losing money to the husband and flatter- 



BRUSSELS. . 3^3 

ing himself that the wit>3 was dying ot love tor him. It is very- 
likely that this worthy couple never absolute\y conspired and 
agreed together in so many words — the one to cajole the 
young gentleman, while the other won his money at cards — 
but they understood each other perfectly well, and Rawdon 
let Osborne come and go with entire good humor. 

George was so occupied with his new acquaintances that 
he and William Dobbin were by no means so much together 
as formerly. George avoided him in public and in the regi- 
ment, and, as we see, did not like those sermons which his 
senior was disposed to inflict upon him. If some parts of 
his conduct made Captain Dobbin exceedingly grave and 
cool, of what use was it to tell George that, though his whis- 
kers were large and his own opinion of his knowingness 
great, he was as green as a school-boy ? that Rawdon was 
making a victim of him as he had done of many before, and 
as soon as he had used him would fling him off with scorn ? 
He would not listen ; and so, as Dobbin, upon those days 
when he visited the Osborne house, seldom had the advan- 
tage of meeting his old friend, much painful and unavailing 
talk between them was spared. Our friend George was in 
the full career of the pleasures of Vanity Fair. 

There never was, since the days of Darius, such a brilliant 
train of camp-followers as hung round the train of the Duke 
of Wellington's army in the Low Countries in 1815, and led 
it dancing and feasting, as it were, up to the very brink of 
battle. A certain ball which a noble Duchess gave at Brussels 
on the 15th of June in the above-named year is historical. All 
Brussels had been in a state of excitement about it, and I have 
heard from ladies who were in that town at the period, that 
the talk and interest of persons of their own sex regarding the 
ball was much greater even than in respect of the enemy in 
their front. The struggles, intrigues, and prayers to get 
tickets were such as only English ladies will employ in order 
to gain admission to the society of the great of their own na- 
tion. 

Jos and Mrs. O'Dowd, who were panting to be asked, 
strove in vain to procure tickets ; but others of our friends 
were more lucky. For instance, through the interest of my 
Lord Bareacres, and as a set-off for the dinner at the restau- 
rateur's, George got a card for Captain and Mrs. Osborne, 
which circumstance greatly elated him. Dobbin, who was a 
friend of the general commanding the division in which their 
regiment was, came laughing one day to Mrs. Osborne, and 



,314 . VANITY FAIR. 

displayed a similar invitation, which made Jos envious and 
George wonder how the deuce he should be getting into soci- 
ety. Mr. and Mrs. Rawdon, finally, were of course invited, as 
became the friends of a general commanding a cavalry brigade. 

On the appointed night George, having commanded new 
•dresses and ornaments of all sorts for Amelia, drove to the 
famous ball, where his wife did not know a single soul. After 
looking about for Lady Bareacres — who cut him, thinking 
the card was quite enough — and after placing Amelia on a 
bench, he left her to her own cogitations there, thinking, on 
his own part, that he had behaved very handsomely in get- 
ting her new clothes and bringing her to the ball, where she 
was free to amuse herself as she liked. Her thoughts were 
not of thepleasantest, and nobody except honest Dobbin came 
to disturb them. 

While her appearance was an utter failure (as her husband 
felt with a rort of rage), Mrs. Rawdon Crawley's debut was, 
on the contrary, very brilliant. She arrived very late. Her 
face was radiant, her dress perfection. In the midst of the 
•great persons assembled, and the eye-glasses directed to her, 
Rebecca seemed to be as cool and collected as when she used 
to marshal Miss Pinkerton's little girls to church. Numbers 
of the men she knew already, and the dandies thronged round 
her. As for the ladies, it was whispered among them that 
Rawdon had run away with her from out of a convent, and 
that she was a relation of the Montmorency family. She 
spoke French so perfectly that there might be some truth in 
this report, and it was agreed that her manners were fine and 
her air distingue'. Fifty would-be partners thronged round 
her at once, and pressed to have the honor to dance with her. 
But she said she was engaged, and only going to dance very 
little, and made her way at once to the place where Emmy 
sat, quite unnoticed, and dismally unhappy. And so, to fin- 
ish the poor child at once, Mrs. Rawdon ran and greeted affec- 
tionately her dearest Amelia, and began forthwith to patron- 
ize her. She found fault with her friend's dress, and her 
hair-dresser, and wondered how she could be so chaussee, and 
vowed that she must send her corsetih-e the next morning. 
She vowed that it was a delightful ball, that there was every- 
body that every one knew, and only a vei-y few nobodies in the 
whole room. It is a fact that, in a fortnight, and after three 
dinners in general society, this young woman had got up the 
genteel jargon so well that a native could not speak it better ; 
and it was only from her French being so good that you 
could know she was not a born woman of fashion. 



BRUSSELS. 3^5 

George, who had left Emmy on her bench on entering 
the ball-room, very soon found his way back when Rebecca 
wasby her dear friend's side. Becky was just lecturing Mrs, 
Osborne upon the follies which her husband was committing. 
" For God's sake, stop him from gambling, my dear," she 
said, " or he will ruin himself. He and Rawdon are playing 
at cards every night, and you know he is very poor, and Raw- 
don will win every shilling from him if he does not take 
care. Why don't you prevent him, you little careless crea- 
ture ? Why don't you come to us of an evening, mstead of 
moping at home with that Captain Dobbin ? I dare say he 
is tres amiable ; but how could one love a man with feet of such 
size? Your husband's feet are darlings — here he comes. 
Where have you been, wretch ? Here is Emmy crying her eyes 
out for you. Are you coming to fetch me for the quadrille ?" 
And she left her bouquet and shawl by Amelia's side and 
tripped off with George to dance. Women only knov/ how 
to wound so. There is a poison on the tips of their little 
shafts which stings a thousand times more than a man's 
blunter weapon. Our poor Emmy, who had never hated, 
never sneered all her life, was powerless in the hands of her 
remorseless little enemy. 

George danced with Rebecca twice or thrice — how many 
times Amelia scarcely knew. She sat quite unnoticed in 
her corner, except when Rawdon came up with some words 
of clumsy conversation ; and later in the evening, when 
Captain Dobbin made so bold as to bring her refreshments 
and sit beside her. He did not like to ask her why she was so 
sad, but, as a pretext for the tears which were filling in her 
eyes, she told him that Mrs. Crawley had alarmed her by 
telling her that George would go on playing, 

"It is curious, when a man is bent upon play, by what 
clumsy rogues he will allow himself to be cheated," Dobbin 
said ; and Emmy said, ' ' Indeed !" She was thinking of some- 
thing else. It was not the loss of the money that grieved her. 

At last George came back for Rebecca's shawl and flowers. 
She was going away. She did not even condescend to come 
back and say good-by to Amelia. The poor girl let her hus- 
band come and go w^ithout saying a word, and her head fell 
on her breast. Dobbin had been called away, and was whis- 
pering deep in conversation with the general of the division, 
his friend, and had not seen this last parting. George went 
away then with the bouquet ; but when he gave it to the own- 
er there lay a note, coiled like a snake, among the flowers. 
Rebecca's eye caught it at once. She had been used to deal 



3i6 VANITY FAIR, 

with notes in early life. She put out her hand and took the 
nosegay. He saw by her eyes as they met that she was 
aware what she should find there. Her husband hurried hcr 
away, still too intent upon his own thoughts, seemingly, to 
take note of any marks of recognition which might pass be- 
tween his friend and his wife. These were, however, but tri- 
fling. Rebecca gave George her hand with 0ne of her usual 
quick, knowing glances, and made a courtesy and walked 
away. George bowed over the hand, said nothing in reply to 
a remark o^ Crawley's, did not hear it even, his brain was so 
throbbing with triumph and excitement, and allowed them to 
go away without a word. 

His wife saw the one part at least of the bouquet-scene. It 
was quite natural that George should come at Rebecca's re- 
quest to get her her scarf and flowers ; it was no more than 
he had done twenty times before in the course of the last few 
days ; but now it was too much for her. " William," she said, 
suddenly clinging to Dobbin, who was near her, " you've al- 
ways been very kind to me — I'm — I'm not well. Take me 
home." She did not know she called him by his Christian 
name, as George was accustomed to do. He went away with 
her quickly. Her lodgings were hard by ; and they threaded 
through the crowd without, where everything seemed to be 
more astir than even in the ball-room within. 

George had been angry twice or thrice at finding his wife 
up on his return from the parties which he frequented ; so 
she went straight to bed now ; but although she did not 
sleep, and although the din and clatter, and the galloping of 
horsemen, was incessant, she never heard any of these noises, 
having quite other disturbances to keep her awake. 

Osborne meanwhile, wild with elation, went off to a play- 
table, and began to bet frantically. He won repeatedly. 
"Everything succeeds with me to-night," he said. But his 
luck at play even did not cure him of his restlessness, and he 
started up after awhile, pocketing his winnings, and-went to 
a buffet, where he drank off many bumpers of wine. 

Here, as he was rattling away to the people around, laugh- 
ing loudly and wild with spirits, Dobbin found him. He had 
been to the card-tables to look there for his friend. Dobbin 
looked as pale and grave as his comrade was flushed and jovial. 

" Hullo, Dob ! Come and drink, old Dob ! The duke's 
wine is famous. Give me some more, you sir;" and he held 
out a trembling glass for the liquor. 

"Come out, George," said Dobbin, still gravely; ".don't 
drink." 



BRUSSELS. 3^7 

" Drink ! there's nothing like it. Drink yourself, and light 
up your lantern-jaws, old boy. Here's to you." 

Dobbin went up and whispered something to him, at which 
George, giving a start and a wild hurray, tossed off his glass, 
clapped it on the table, and walked away speedily on his 
friend's arm. " The enemy has passed theSambre," William 
said, "and our left is already engaged. Come away. We 
are to march in three hours." 

Away went George, his nerves quivering with excitement at 
the news so long looked for, so sudden when it came. What 
were love and intrigue ? Rethought about a thousand things 
but these in his rapid walk to his quarters — his past life and 
future chances — the fate which might be before him — the wife, 
the child perhaps, from whom unseen he might be about to 
part. Oh, how he wished that night's work undone ! and that 
with a clear conscience at least he might say farewell to the 
tender and guileless being by whose love he had set such lit- 
tle store ! 

He thought over his brief married life. In those few weeks 
he had frightfully dissipated his little capital. How wild and 
reckless he had been ! Should any mischance befall him, 
what was then left for her ? How unworthy he was of her. 
Why had he married her ? He was not fit for marriage. Why 
had he disobeyed his father, who had been always so generous 
to him ? Hope, remorse, ambition, tenderness, and selfish 
regret filled his heart. He sat down, and wrote to his father, 
remembering what he had said once before, when he was 
engaged to fight a duel. Dawn faintly streaked the sky as 
he closed this farewell letter. He sealed it, and kissed the 
superscription. He thought how he had deserted that gen- 
erous father, and of the thousand kindnesses which the stern 
old man had done him. 

He had looked into Amelia's bedroom when he entered ; 
she lay quiet, and her eyes seemed closed, and he was glad 
that she was asleep. On arriving at his quarters from the 
ball, he had found his regimental servant already making 
preparations for his departure ; the man had understood his 
signal to be still, and these arrangements were very quickly 
and silently made. Should he go in and wake Amelia, he 
thought, or leave a note for her brother to break the news 
of departure to her ? He went in to look at her once again. 

She had been awake whe% he first entered her room, but 
had kept her eyes closed, so that even her wakefulness should 
not seem to reproach him. But when he had returned, so soon 



3x8 VANITY FAIR. 

after herself, too, this timid little heart had felt more at ease, 
and turning toward him as he stepped softly out of the room, 
she had fallen into a light sleep. George came in and looked 
at her again, entering still more softly. By the pale night- 
lamp he could see her sweet, pale face ; the purple eyelids 
were fringed and closed, and one round arm, smooth and 
white, lay outside of the coverlet. Good God ! how pure she 
was ; how gentle, how tender, and how friendless ! and he, 
how selfish, brutal, and black with crime ! Heart-stained and 
shame-stricken, he stood at the bed's foot, and looked at the 
sleeping girl. How dared he — who was he — to pray for one 
so spotless ! God bless her ! God bless her ! He came to 
the bedside^ and looked at the hand, the little soft hand, 
lying asleep ; and he bent over the pillow noiselessly toward 
the gentle, pale face. 

Two fair arms closed tenderly round his neck as he stooped 
down. " I am awake, George," the poor child said, with a 
sob fit to break the little heart that nestled so closely by his 
own. She was awake, poor soul, and to what ? At that mo- 
ment a bugle from the Place of Arms began sounding clearly, 
and was taken up through the town ; and amid the drums of 
the infantry and the shrill pipes of the Scotch, the whole city 
awokco 



THE GIRL I LEFT BEHIND ME." 



319 



CHAPTER XXX. 

" THE GIRL I LEFT BEHIND ME." 

E do not claim to rank among the 
military novelists. Our place is 
with the non-combatants. When 
the decks are cleared for action 
we go bel®w and wait meekly. 
We should only be in the way 
of the manoeuvres that the gal- 
lant fellows are performing 
overhead. We shall go no far- 
ther with the — th than to the 
city gate ; and leaving Major 
O'Dowd to his duty, come back 
to the major's wife and the 
ladies and the baggage. 

Now, the major and his lady, 
who had not been invited to the 
ball at which, in our last chap- 
ter, other of our friends figured, 
had much more time to take their wholesome natural rest in 
bed than was accorded to people who wished to enjoy pleas- 
ure as well as to do duty. " It's my belief, Peggy, my dear," 
said he, as he placidly pulled his night cap over his ears, 
" that there will be such a ball danced in a day or two as some 
of 'em has never heard thechuneof ;" and he was much more 
happy to retire to rest after partaking of a quiet tumbler, 
than to figure at any other sort of amusement. Peggy, 
for her part, would have liked to have shown her turban 
and bird of paradise at the ball, but for the information 
which her husband had given her, and which made her very 
grave. 

" Pd like ye wake me about half an hour before the assem- 
bly beats," the major said to his lady. "Call me at half- 
past one, Peggy, dear, and see me things is ready. May- 
be PU not con-.e back to breakfast, Mrs. O'D." With which 
words, which signified his opinion that the regiment would 




320 VANITY FAIR. 

march the next morning, the major ceased talking, and fell 
asleep. 

Mrs. O'Dowd, the good housewife, arrayed in curl-papers 
and a camisole, felt that her duty was to act, and not to sleep, 
at this juncture. " Time enough for that," she said, " when 
Mick's gone ;" and so she packed his travelling-valise ready 
for the march, brushed his cloak, his cap, and other warlike 
habiliments, set them out in order for him, and stowed away 
in the cloak pockets a light package of portable refreshments, 
and a wicker-covered flask or pocket pistol, containing near 
a pint of a remarkably sound Cognac brandy, of which she and 
the major approved very much ; and as soon as the hands of 
the " repayther " pointed to half-past one, and its interior 
arrangements (it had a tone quite equal to a cathaydral, its 
fair owner considered) knelled forth that fatal hour, Mrs. 
O'Dowd woke up her major, and had as comfortable a cup of 
coffee prepared for him as any made that morning in Brussels. 
And who is there will deny that this worthy lady's prepara- 
tions betokened affection as much as the fits of tears and hys- 
terics by which more sensitive females exhibited their love, 
and that their partaking of this coffee, which they drank to- 
gether while the bugles were sounding the turn-out and the 
drums beating in the various quarters of the town, was not 
more useful and to the purpose than the outpouring of any 
mere sentiment could be ? The consequence was that the major 
appeared on parade quite trim, fresh, and alert, his well- 
shaved, rosy countenance, as he sat on horseback, giving 
cheerfulness and confidence to the whole corps. All the offi- 
cers saluted her when the regiment marched by the balcony 
on which this brave woman stood, and waved them a cheer 
as they passed ; and I dare say it was not from want of cour- 
age, but from a sense of female delicacy and propriety, that 
she refrained from leading the gallant — th personally into 
action. 

On Sundays, and at periods of a solem.n nature, Mrs. 
O'Dowd used to read with great gravity out of a large vol- 
ume of her uncle the dean's sermons. It had been of great 
comfort to her on board the transport as they were coming 
home, and were very nearly wrecked, on their return from the 
West Indies. After the regiment's departure she betook her- 
self to this volume for meditation ; perhaps she did not 
understand much of what she was reading, and her thoughts 
were elsewhere ; but the sleep project, with poor Mick's night- 
cap there on the pillow, was quite a vain one. So it is in the 
world. Jack or Donald marches away to glory with his 




Venus preparing the Armor of Mars 



I 



" THE GIRL I LEFT BEHIND MEr 32 J 

knapsack on his shoulder, stepping out briskly to the tune 
of " The Girl I left behind me." It is she who remains and 
suffers— and has the leisure to think, and brood, and remem- 
ber. 

Knowing how useless regrets are, and how the indulgence 
of sentiment only serves to make people more miserable, Mrs. 
Rebecca wisely determined to give way to no vain feelings 
of sorrow, and bore the parting from her husband with quite 
a Spartan equanimity. Indeed, Captain Rawdon himself was 
much more affected' at the leave-taking than the resolute 
little woman to whom he bade farewell. She had mastered 
this rude, coarse nature, and he loved and worshipped her with 
all his faculties of regard and admiration. In all his life he 
had never been so happy as, during the past few months, 
his wife had made him. All former delights of turf, mess, 
hunting-field, and gambling table — all previous loves and 
courtships of milliners, opera-dancers, and the like easy tri- 
umphs of the clumsy military Adonis, were quite insipid 
when compared to the lawful matrimonial pleasures which 
of late he had enjoyed. She had known perpetually how to 
divert him ; and he had found his house and her society a 
thousand times more pleasant than any place or company 
which he had ever frequented from his childhood until now. 
And he cursed his past follies and extravagances, and be- 
moaned his vast outlying debts above all, which must remain 
forever as obstacles to prevent his wife's advancement in the 
world. He had often groaned over these in midnight con- 
versations with Rebecca, although as a bachelor they had 
never given him any disquiet. He himself was struck with 
this phenomenon. " Hang it," he would say (or perhaps use 
a still stronger expression out of his simple vocabulary), 
" before I was married I didn't care what bills I put my 
name to, and so long as Moses would wait or Levy would 
renew for three months, I kept on never minding. But since 
I'm married, except renewing, of course, I give you my hon- 
or, I've not touched a bit of stamped paper." 

Rebecca always knew how to conjure away these moods 
of melancholy. " Why, my stupid love," she would say, 
" we have not done with vour aunt yet. If she fails us, isn't 
there what you call the Gazette ? or, stop, when your uncle 
Bute's life drops, I have another scheme. The living has 
always belonged to the younger brother, and why shouldn't 
you sell out and go into the Church ?" The idea of this con- 
version set Rawdon into roars of laughter ; you might have 
heard the explosion through the hotel at midnight, and the 



322 VANITY FAIR. 

haw-haws of the great dragoon's voice. General Tufto heard 
him from his quarters on the first floor above them ; and Re- 
becca acted the scene with great spirit, and preached Raw- 
don's first sermon, to the immense delight of the general, at 
breakfast. 

But these were mere bygone days and talk. When the final 
news arrived that the campaign was opened, and the troops 
were to march, Rawdon's gravity became such that Becky 
rallied him about it in a manner which rather hurt the 
feelings of the guardsman. "You don't suppose I'm afraid, 
Becky, I should think," he said, with a tremor in his voice. 
'' But I'm a pretty good mark for a shot, and you see if it 
brings me down, why I leave one and perhaps two behind 
me whom I should wish to provide for, as I brought 'em into 
the scrape. It is no laughing matter that, Mrs. C, any- 
ways." 

Rebecca by a hundred caresses and kind words tried to 
soothe the feelings of the wounded lover. It was only when 
her vivacity and sense of humor got the better of this sprightly 
creature (as they would do under most circumstances of life, 
indeed), that she would break out with her satire, but she could 
soon put on a demure face. " Dearest love,'* she said, " do 
you suppose I feel nothing ?" and hastily dashing something 
from her eyes, she looked up in her husband's face with a 
smile. 

" Look here," said he. " If I drop, let us see what there is 
for you. I have had a pretty good run of luck here, and 
here's two hundred and thirty pounds. I have got ten Na- 
poleons in my pocket. That is as much as I shall want ; 
for the general pays everything like a prince ; and if I'm hit, 
why you know I cost nothing. Don't cry, little woman ; I 
may live to vex you yet. Well, I shan't take either of my 
horses, but shall ride the general's gray charger ; it's cheaper, 
and I told him mine was lame. If I'm done, those two ought 
to fetch you something. Grigg offered ninety for the mare 
yesterday, before this confounded news came, and like a fool 
I wouldn't let her go under the two o's. Bullfinch will fetch 
his price any day, only you'd better sell him in this country, 
because the dealers have so many bills of mine, and so 
I'd rather he shouldn't go back to England. Your little mare 
the general gave you will fetch some-thing, and there's no 
d — d livery stable bills here as there are in London," Raw- 
don added with a laugh. " There's that dressing-case cost 
me two hundred — that is, I owe two for it ; and the gold tops 
and bottles must be worth thirty or forty. Please to put that 



" THE GIRL I LEFT BEHIND ME.'' 333 

up the Spout, ma'am, with my pins and rings, and watch 
and chain, and things. They cost a precious lot of money. 
Miss Crawley, I know, paid a hundred down for the chain 
and ticker. Gold tops and bottles, indeed ! dammy, I'm 
sorry I didn't take more now. Edwards pressed on me a silver- 
gilt boot-jack, and I might have had a dressing-case fitted up 
with a silver warming-pan, and a service of plate. But we 
must make the best of what we've got, Becky, you know." 

And so, making his last dispositions. Captain Crawley, who 
had seldom thought about anything but himself until the 
last few months of his life, when Love had obtained the 
mastery over the dragoon, went through the various items of 
his little catalogue of effects, striving to see how they might 
be turned into money for his wife's benefit, in case any ac- 
cident should befall him. He pleased himself by noting down 
with a pencil in his big school-boy handwriting, the various 
items of his portable property which might be sold for his 
widow's advantage — as, for example, " My double-barril by 
Manton, say 40 guineas ; my driving cloak, lined with sable 
fur, ^50 ; my duelling pistols, in rosewood case (same which 
I shot Captain Marker), ^20 ; my regulation saddle holsters 
and housings ; my Laurie ditto," and so forth, over all of 
which articles he made Rebecca the mistress. 

Faithful to his plan of economy, the captain dressed 
himself in his oldest and shabbiest uniform and epaulets, 
leaving the newest behind, under his wife's (or it might 
be his widow's) guardianship. And this famous dandy of 
Windsor and Hyde Park went off on his campaign with a 
kit as modest as that of a sergeant, and with something like 
a prayer on his lips for the woman he was leaving. He 
took her up from the ground and held her in his arms for a 
minute, tight pressed against his strong-beating heart. His 
face was purple and his eyes dim as he put her down and left 
her. He rode by his general's side, and smoked his cigar 
in silence as they hastened after the troops of the general's 
brigade, which preceded them ; and it was not until they 
were some miles on their way that he left off twirling his mous- 
tache and broke silence. 

And Rebecca, as we have said, wisely determined not to 
give way to unavailing sentimentality on her husband's depar- 
ture. She waved him an adieu from the window, and stood 
there for a moment looking out after he was gone. The 
cathedral towers and the full gables of the quaint old houses 
were just beginning to blush in the sunrise. There had been 
no rest for her that night. She was still in her pretty ball- 



32 + 



VANITY FAIR. 



dress, her fair hair hanging somewhat out of curl on her neck, 
and the circles round her eyes dark with watching. " What 
a fright I seem," she said, examining herself in the glass, 
" and how pale this pink makes one look !" So she divested 
herself of this pink raiment ; in doing which a note fell out 
from her corsage, which she picked up with a smile, and 
locked into her dressing-box. And then she put her bou- 
quet of the ball into a glass of water, and went to bed, and 
slept very comfortably. 

The town was quite quiet when she woke up at ten o'clock, 
and partook of coffee, very requisite and comfortable after 
the exhaustion and grief of the morning's occurrences. 

This meal over, she resumed honest Rawdon's calculations 
of the night previous, and surveyed her position. Should the 



\4 4 ^^^4 




worst befall, all things considered, she was pretty well to do. 
There were her own trinkets and trousseau, in addition to 
those which her husband had left behind. Rawdon's gen- 
erosity, when they were first married, has already been de- 
scribed and lauded. Besides these and the little mare, the 
general, her slave and worshipper, had made her many very 
handsome presents, in the shape of cashmere shawls bought 
at the auction of a bankrupt French general's lady, and 
numerous tributes from the jewellers' shops, all of which be- 
tokened her admirer's taste and wealth. As for " tickers," 
as poor Rawdon called watches, her apartments were alive 
with their clicking. For, happening to mention one night 
that hers, which Rawdon had given to her, was of English 
workmanship, and went ill, on the very next morning there 



I 



" THE GIRL I LEFT BEHIND ME.'' 325 

came to her a little bijou marked Leroy, with a chain and 
cover, charmingly set with turquoises, and another signed 
Breguet, which was covered with pearls, and yet scarcely 
bigger than a half-crown. General Tufto had bought one, 
and Captain Osborne had gallantly presented the other. Mrs. 
Osborne had no watch, though, to do George justice, she 
might have had one for the asking, and the honorable Mrs. 
Tufto in England had an old instrument of her mother's that 
might have served for the plate warming-pan which Rawdon 
talked about. If Messrs. Howell & James were to publish 
a list of the purchasers of all the trinkets which they sell, how 
surprised would some families be, and if all these ornaments 
went to gentlemen's lawful wives and daughters, what a 
profusion of jewelry there would be exhibited in the gen- 
teelest homes of Vanity Fair ! 

Every calculation made of these valuables Mrs. Rebecca 
found, not without a pungent feeling of triumph and self-sat- 
isfaction, that should circumstances occur, she might reckon 
on six or seven hundred pounds at the very least, to begin 
the world with ; and she passed the morning, disposing, order- 
ing, looking out, and locking up her properties, in the most 
agreeable manner. Among the notes in Rawdon's pocket- 
book was a draft for twenty pounds on Osborne's banker. 
This made her think about Mrs. Osborne. " I will go and 
get the draft cashed," she said, " and pay a visit afterward to 
poor little Emmy." If this is a novel without a hero, at least 
let us lay claim to a heroine. No man in the British army 
which has marched away, not the great duke himself, could 
be more cool or collected in the presence of doubts and diffi- 
culties, than the indomitable little aide-de-camp's wife. 

And there was another of our acquaintances who was also 
to be left behind, a non-combatant, and whose emotions and 
behavior we have therefore a right to know. This was our 
friend the ex-collector of Boggley Wollah, whose rest was 
broken, like other people's, by the sounding of the bugles in 
the early morning. Being a great sleeper and fond of his 
bed, it is possible he would have snoozed on until his usual 
hour of rising in the forenoon, in spite of all the drums, 
bugles, and bagpipes in the British army, but for an interrup- 
tion, which did not come from George Osborne, who shared 
Jos's quarters with him, and was as usual occupied too much 
with his own affairs or with grief at parting with his wife to 
think of taking leave of his slumbering brother-in-law — it 
was not George, we say, who interposed between Jos Sedley 



326 VANITY FAIR. 

and sleep, but Captain Dobbin, who came and roused him up^ 
insisting on shaking hands with him before his departure. 

" Very kind of you," said Jos, yawning, and wishing the 
captain at the deuce. 

" I — I didn't like to go off without saying good-by, you 
know," Dobbin said in a very incoherent manner ; " because 
you know some of us mayn't come back again, and I like to 
see you all well, and — and that sort of thing, you know." 

" What do you mean ?" Jos asked, rubbing his eyes. The 
captain did not in the least hear him or look at the stout gen- 
tleman in the nightcap, about whom he professed to have such 
a tender interest. The hypocrite was looking and listening 
with all his might in the direction of George's apartments, 
striding about the room, upsetting the chairs, beating the 
tattoo, biting his nails, and showing other signs of great in- 
ward emotion. 

Jos had always had rather a mean opinion of the captain, 
and now began to think his courage was somewhat equivocal. 
" What is it I can do for you, Dobbin ?" he said, in a sarcastic 
tone. 

" I tell you what you can do," the captain replied, com- 
ing up to the bed ; " we march in a quarter of an hour, Sed- 
ley, and neither George nor I may ever come back. Mind 
you, you are not to stir from this town until you ascertain 
how things go. You are to stay here and watch over your 
sister, and comfort her, and see that no harm comes to 
her. If anything happens to George, remember she has no 
one but you in the world to look to. If it goes wrong 
with the army, you'll see her safe back to England ; and you 
will promise on your word that you will never desert her. I 
know you won't ; as far as money goes, you were always free 
enough with that. Do you want any ? I mean, have you 
enough gold to take you back to England in case of a misfor- 
tune ?" 

"Sir," said Jos, majestically, "when I want money, I 
know where to ask for it. And as for my sister, _>w/ needn't 
tell me how I ought to behave to her," 

" You speak like a man of spirit, Jos," the other answered 
good-naturedly, " and I am glad that George can leave her in 
such good hands. So I may give him your word of honor, 
may I, that in case of extremity you will stand by her ?" 

" Of course, of course," answered Mr. Jos, whose gener- 
osity in money matters Dobbin estimated quite correctly. 

" And you'll see her safe out of Brussels in the event of a 
defeat ?" 




Photo by Bvron 



" THE GIRL I LERT BEHIND ME." 3-7 

" A defeat ! D — it, sir, it's impossible. Don't try and 
frighten me," the hero cried from his bed ; and Dobbin's 
mind was thus perfectly set at ease now that Jos had spoken 
out so resolutely respecting his conduct to his sister. " At 
least," thought the captain, " there will be a retreat secured 
for her in case the worst should ensue." 

If Captain Dobbin expected to get any personal comfort 
and satisfaction from having one more view of Amelia before 
the regiment marched away, his selfishness was punished just 
as such odious egotism deserved to be. The door of Jos's 
bedroom opened into the sitting room which was common' to 
the family party, and opposite this door was that of Amelia's 
chamber. The bugles had wakened everybody ; there was no 
use in concealment now. George's servant was packing in 
this room, Osborne coming in and out of the contiguous bed- 
room, flinging to the man such articles as he thought fit to 
carry on the campaign. And presently Dobbin had the 
opportunity which his heart coveted, and he got sight of Ame- 
lia's face once more. But what a face it was ? So white, so 
wild and despair-stricken, that the remembrance of it haunted 
him afterward like a crime, and the sight smote him with in- 
expressible pangs of longing and pity. 

. She was wrapped in a white morning dress, her hair fall- 
ing on her shoulders, and her large eyes fixed and without 
light. By way of helping on the preparations for the depar- 
ture, and showing that she too could be useful at a moment 
so critical, this poor soul had taken up a sash of George's from 
the drawers whereon it lay, and followed him to and fro with 
the sash in her hand, looking on mutely as his packing pro- 
ceeded. She came out and stood, leaning at the wall, hold- 
ing this sash against her bosom, from which the heavy net of 
crimson dropped like a large stain of blood. Our gentle- 
hearted captain felt a guilty shock as he looked at her. " Good 
God," thought he, " and is it grief like this I dared to pry 
into ?" And there was no help, no means to soothe and com- 
fort this helpless, speechless misery. He stood for a moment 
and looked at her, powerless and torn with pity, as a parent 
regards an infant in pain. 

At last, George took Emmy's hand, and led her back into 
the bedroom, from whence he came out alone. The parting 
had taken place in that moment, and he was gone. 

" Thank heaven, that is over," George thought, bounding 
down the stair, his sword under his arm, as he ran swiftly 
to the alarm ground, where the regiment was mustered, and 
whither trooped men and officers hurrying from their 



32» VANITY FAIR. 

billets. His pulse was throbbing and his cheeks flushed ; the 
great game of war was going to be played, and he one of 
the players. What a fierce excitement of doubt, hope, and 
pleasure ! What tremendous hazard of loss or gain ! What 
were all the games of chance he had ever played compared 
to this one ? Into all contests requiring athletic skill and 
courage, the young man, from his boyhood upward, had 
flung himself with all his might. The champion of his 
school and his regiment, thebravosof his companions had fol- 
lowed him everywhere ; from the boys' cricket-match to the 
garrison-races, he had won a hundred triumphs ; and wher- 
ever he went women and men had admired and envied him. 
What qualities are there for which a man gets so speedy 
a return of applause, as those of bodily superiority, activity, 
and valor ? Time out of mind strength and courage have 
been the theme of bards and romances ; and from the story 
of Troy down to to-day, poetry has always chosen a soldier 
for a hero. I wonder is it because men are cowards in heart 
that they admire bravery so much, and place military valor so 
far beyond every other quality for reward and worship ? 

So, at the sound of that stirring call to battle, George 
jumped away from the gentle arms in which he had been 
dallying, not without a feeling of shame (although his wife's 
hold on him had been but feeble), that he should have been 
detained there so long. The same feeling of eagerness and 
excitement was among all those friends of his of whom we 
have had occasional glimpses, from the stout senior major, 
who led the regiment into action, to little Stubble, the ensign, 
who was to bear its colors on that day. 

The sun was just rising as the march began — it was a gal- 
lant sight— the band led the column, playing the regimental 
march — then came the major in command, riding upon Pyra- 
mus, his stout charger — then marched the grenadiers, their 
captain at their head ; in the centre were the colors, borne 
by the senior and junior ensigns — then George came march- 
ing at the head of his company. He looked up, and smiled 
at Amelia, and passed on ; and even the sound of the music 
died away. 



yOS SEDLEY TAKES CARE OF HIS SISTER. 



329 



CHAPTER XXXI. 



IN WHICH JOS SEDLEY TAKES CARE OF HIS SISTER. 




HUS all the superior officers being 
summoned on duty elsewhere, Jos 
Sedley was left in command of 
the little colony at Brussels, with 
Amelia invalided, Isidor, his Bel- 
gian servant, and the bonne^ who 
was maid-of-all-work for the es- 
tablishment, as a garrison under 
him. Though he was disturbed 
in spirit, and his rest destroyed 
by Dobbin's interruption and the 
occurrences of the morning, Jos 
nevertheless remained for many 
hours in bed, wakeful and rolling about there until his usual 
hour of rising had arrived. The sun was high in the heav- 
ens, and our gallant friends of the — th miles on their march, 
before the civilian appeared in his flowered dressing-gown at 
breakfast. 

About George's absence, his brother-in-law was very easy 
in mind. Perhaps Jos was rather pleased in his heart that 
Osborne was gone, for during George's presence, the other 
had played but a very secondary part in the household, and 
Osborne did not scruple to show his contempt for the stout 
civilian. But Emmy had alwavs been good and attentive to 
him. It was she who ministered to his comforts, who superin- 
tended the dishes that he liked, who walked or rode with him 
(as she had many, too many, opportunities of doing, for 
where was George ?) and who interposed her sweet face be- 
tween his anger and her husband's scorn. Many timid re- 
monstrances had she uttered to George in behaif of her broth- 
er, but the former in his trenchant way cut these entreaties 
short. " I'm an honest man," he said, " and if I have a feel- 
ing I show it, as an honest man will. How the deuce, my 
dear, would you have me behave respectfully to such a fool as 
your brother ?" So Jos was pleased with George's absence. 



330 VANITY FAIR. 

His plain hat, and gloves on a sideboard, and the idea that 
the owner was away, caused Jos I don't know what secret 
thrill of pleasure. ''He won't be troubling me this morn- 
ing," Jos thought, " with his dandified airs and his impu- 
dence." 

" Put the captain's hat into the ante-room," he said to Isi- 
dor, the servant. 

" Perhaps he won't want it again," replied the lackey, 
looking knowingly at his master. He hated George too, 
whose insolence toward him was quite of the English sort. 

"And ask if madam is coming to breakfast," Mr. Sedley 
said with great majesty, ashamed to enter with a servant up- 
on the subject of his dislike for George. The truth is, he had 
abused his brother to the valet a score of times before. 

Alas ! madam could not come to breakfast and cut the tar- 
tines that Mr. Jos liked. Madam was a great deal too ill, 
and had been in a frightful state ever since her husband's 
departure, so her ^^;///^. said. Jos showed his sympathy by 
pouring her out a large cup of tea. It was his way of exhib- 
iting kindness ; and he improved on this ; he not only sent 
her breakfast, but he bethought him what delicacies she 
would most like for dinner. 

Isidor, the valet, had looked on very sulkily while Osborne's 
servant was disposing of his master's baggage previous to 
the captain's departure, for in the first place he hated Mr. 
Osborne, whose conduct to him, and to all inferiors, was gen- 
erally overbearing (nor does the Continental domestic like 
to be treated with insolence as our own better-tempered ser- 
vants do), and secondly, he was angry that so many valuables 
should be removed from under his hands, to fall into other peo- 
ple's possession when the English discomfiture should arrive. 
Of this defeat he and a vast number of other persons in 
Brussels and Belgium did not make the slightest doubt. The 
almost universal belief was, that the emperor would divide 
the Prussian and English armies, annihilate one after the 
other, and march into Brussels before three days were over, 
when all the movables of his present masters, who would 
be killed, or fugitives, or prisoners, would lawfully become 
the property of Monsieur Isidor. 

As he helped Jos through his toilsome and complicated 
daily toilet, this faithful servant would calculate what he 
should do with the very articles with which he was decorat- 
ing his master's person. He would make a present of the sil- 
ver essence-bottles and toilet knick-knacks to a young lady 
of whom he was fond, and keep the English cutlery and the 



yOS SEDLEY TAKES CARE OF HIS SISTER. Zl^ 

large ruby pin for himself. It would look very smart upon 
one of the fine frilled shirts, which, with the gold-laced cap 
and the frogged frock coat, that might easily be cut down to 
suit his shape, and the captain's gold-headed cane, and the 
great double ring with the rubies, which he would have made 
into a pair of beautiful earrings, he calculated would make a 
perfect Adonis of himself and render Mademoiselle Reine an 
easy prey. " How those sleeve buttons will suit me !"thought 
he, as he fixed a pair on the fat pudgy wrists of Mr. Sedley. 
" I long for sleeve-buttons ; and the captain's boots with brass 
spurs, in the next room, coi^bleu ! what an effect they will 
make in the Allee Verte !" So while Monsieur Isidor with 
bodily fingers was holding on to his master's nose, and shav- 
ing the lower part of Jos's face, his imagination was rambling 
along the Green Avenue, dressed out in a frogged coat and 
lace, and in company with Mademoiselle Reine ; he was loiter- 
ing in spirit on the banks, and examining the barges sailing 
slowly under the cool shadows of the trees by the canal, or 
refreshing himself with a mug of Faro at the bench of a beer 
house on the road to Laeken. 

But Mr. Joseph Sedley, luckily for his own peace, no more 
knew what was passing in his domestic's mind than the re- 
spected reader and I suspect what John or Mary, whose wages 
we pay, think of ourselves. What our servants think of us ! 
Did we know what our intimates and dear relations thought 
of us, we should live in a world that we should be glad to 
quit, and in a frame of mind and a constant terror that 
would be perfectly unbearable. So Jos's man was marking 
his victim down, as you see one of Mr. Paynter's assistants in 
Leadenhall Street ornament an unconscious turtle with a 
placard on which is written, " Soup to-morrow." 

Amelia's attendant was much less selfishly disposed. Few 
dependants could come near that kind and gentle creature 
without paying their usual tribute of loyalty and affection to 
her sweet and affectionate nature. And it is a fact that Pau- 
line, the cook, consoled her mistress more than anybody whom 
she saw on this wretched morning ; for when she found how 
Amelia remained for hours, silent, motionless, and haggard, 
by the windows in which she had placed herself to watch the 
last bayonets of the column as it marched away, the honest 
girl took the lady's hand, and said, Tenez^ madame, est-ce qu'il 
nest pas aussi a farmee, mon homme a moi ? with which she 
burst into tears, and Amelia falling into her arms, did like- 
wise, and so each pitied and soothed the other. 



332 VANITY FAIR. 

Several times during the forenoon Mr. Jos's Isidor went 
from his lodgings into the town and to the gates of the hotels 
and. lodging-houses round about the Pare, where the English 
were congregated, and there mingling with other valets, cou- 
riers, and lackeys, gathered such news as was abroad, and 
brought back bulletins for his master's information. Almost 
all these gentlemen were in heart partisans of the emperor, 
and had their opinions about the speedy end of the campaign. 
The emperor's proclamation from Avesnes had been distrib- 
uted everywhere plentifully in Brussels. " Soldiers !" it said, 
" this is the anniversary of Marengo and Friedland, by which 
the destinies of Europe were twice decided. Then, as after 
Austerlitz, as after Wagram, we were too generous. We be- 
lieved in the oaths and promises of princes whom we suffered 
to remain upon their thrones. Let us march once more to 
meet them. We and they, are we not still the same men ? 
Soldiers ! these same Prussians who are so arrogant to day 
were three to one against you at Jena, and six to one at Mont- 
mirail. Those among you who were prisoners in England can 
tell their comrades what frightful torments they suffered on 
board the English hulks. Madmen ! a moment of prosperity 
has blinded them, and if they enter into France it v\Fill be to 
find a grave there !" But the partisans of the French proph- 
esied a more speedy extermination of the emperor's enemies 
than this, and it was agreed on all hands that Prussians and 
British would never return except as prisoners in the rear of 
the conquering army. 

These opinions in the course of the day were brought to 
operate upon Mr. Sedley. He was told that the Duke of 
Wellington had gone to try and rally his army, the advance 
of which had been utterly crushed the night before. 

" Crushed, psha !" said Jos, whose heart was pretty stout at 
breakfast-time. "The duke has gone to beat the emperor as 
he has beaten all his generals before." 

" His papers are burned, his effects are removed, and his 
quarters are being got ready for the Duke of Dalmatia," Jos's 
informant replied. " I had it from his own maitre a hotel. 
Milor Due de Richemont's people are packing up everything. 
His grace has fled already, and the duchess is only waiting 
to see the plate packed to join the King of France at Ostend." 

" The King of France is at Ghent, fellow," replied Jos, af- 
fecting incredulity. 

" He fled last night to Bruges, and embarks to-day from 
Ostend. The Due de Berri is taken prisoner. Those who 
wish to be safe had better go soon, for the dikes will be 



yOS SEDLEY TAKES CARE OF HIS SISTER. HZ 

Opened to-morrow, and who can fly when the whole country 
is under water ?" 

" Nonsense, sir, we are three to one, sir, against any force 
Boney can bring into the field," Mr. Sedley objected ; " the 
Austrians and the Russians are on' their march. He must, 
he shall be crushed," Jos said, slapping his hand on the table. 

" The Prussians were three to one at Jena, and he took their 
army and kingdom in a week. They were six to one atMont- 
mirail, and he scattered them like sheep. The Austrian army 
is coming, but with the Empress and the King of Rome at its 
head ; and the Russians, bah ! the Russians will withdraw. 
No quarter is to be given to the English, on account of their 
cruelty to our braves on board the infamous pontoons. Look 
here, here it is in black and white. Here's the proclamation 
of his Majesty the Emperor ancj King," said the now declared 
partisan of Napoleon, and taking the document from his pock- 
et, Isidor sternly thrust it into his master's face, and already 
looked upon the frogged coat and valuables as his own spoil. 

Jos was, if not seriously alarmed as yet, at least consider- 
ably disturbed in mind. " Give me my coat and cap, sir," 
said he, " and follow me. I will go myself and learn the truth 
of these reports." Isidor was furious as Jos put on the 
braided frock. " Milor had better not wear that military 
coat," said he; "the Frenchmen have sworn not to give 
quarter to a single British soldier. ' ' 

*' Silence, sirrah !" said Jos, with a resolute countenance 
still, and thrust his arm into the sleeve with indomitable reso- 
lution, in the performance of which heroic act he was found 
by Mrs. Rawdon Crawley, who at this juncture came up to 
visit Amelia, and entered without ringing at the antechamber 
door. 

Rebecca was dressed very neatly and smartly, as usual ; 
her quiet sleep after Rawdon's departure had refreshed her, 
and her pink, smiling cheeks were quite pleasant to look at, 
in a town and on a day when everybody else's countenance 
wore the appearance of the deepest anxiety and gloom. She 
laughed at the attitude in which Jos was discovered, and the 
srruggles and convulsions with which the stout gentleman 
mrust himself into the braided coat. 

"Are you preparing to join the army, Mr. Joseph?" she 
said. " Is there to be nobody left in Brussels to protect us 
poor women ?" Jos succeeded in plunging into the coat, and 
came forward blushing and stuttering out excuses to his 
fair visitor. " How was she after the events of the morning 
^after the fatigues of the ball the night before ?" Monsieur 



334 



VANITY FAIR. 



Isidor disappeared into his master's adjacent bedroom, bear- 
ing off the flowered dressing-gown. 

" How good of you to ask," said she, pressing one of his 
hands in both her own. " How cool and collected you look 
when everybody else is frightened ! How is our dear little 
Emmy ? It must have been an awful, awful parting." 




" Tremendous," Jos said. 

" You men can bear anything," replied the lady. " Part- 
ing or danger are nothing to you. Own now that you were 
going to join the army and leave us to our fate. I know you 
were — something tells me you were. I was so frightened, 
when the thought came into my head (for I do sometimes 
think of you when I am alone, Mr. Joseph), that I ran off im- 
mediately to beg and entreat you not to fly from us." 

This speech might be interpreted, " My dear sir, should 
an accident befall the army, and a retreat be necessary, you 



yOS SEDLEY TAKES CARE OF HIS SISTER. 335 

have a very comfortable carriage, in which I propose to take 
a seat." I don't know whether Jos understood the words 
in this sense. But he was profoundly mortified by the lady's 
inattention to him during their stay at Brussels. He had 
never been presented to 2tiiy of Rasvdon Crawley's great ac- 
quaintances ; he had scarcely been invited to Rebecca's par- 
ties ; for he was too timid to play much, and his presence 
bored George and Rawdon equally, who neither of them, 
perhaps, liked to have a witness of the amusements in which 
the pair chose to indulge. " Ah !" thought Jos, " now she 
wants me she comes to me. When there is nobody else in the 
way she can think about old Joseph Sedley !" But besides 
these doubts, he felt flattered at the idea Rebecca expressed of 
his courage. 

He blushed a good deal, and put on an air of importance. 
" I should like to see the action," he said. " Every man of 
any spirit would, you know. I've seen a little service in In- 
dia, but nothing on this grand scale." 

' ' You men would sacrifice anything for a pleasure, ' ' Rebecca 
answered. " Captain Crawley left me this morning as gay 
as if he were going to a hunting-party. What does he care ? 
What do any of you care for the agonies and tortures of a 
poor forsaken woman ? (I wonder whether he could really 
have been going to the troops, this great, lazy gourmand ?) 
Oh ! dear Mr. Sedley, I have come to you for comfort — for 
consolation. I have been on my knees all the morning. I 
tremble at the frightful danger into which our husbands, our 
friends, our brave troops and allies, are rushing. And I come 
here for shelter, and find another of my friends— the last re- 
maining to me— bent upon plunging into the dreadful scene !" 

" My dear madam," Jos replied, now beginning to be 
quite soothed, " don't be alarmed. I only said I should like 
to go — what Briton would not ^ But my duty keeps me here ; 
I can't leave that poor creature in the next room." And he 
pointed with his finger to the door of the chamber in which 
Amelia was. 

" Good, noble brother !" Rebecca said, putting her hand- 
kerchief to her eyes, and smelling the eau-de-cologne with 
which it was scented. " I have done you injustice ; you have 
got a heart. I thought you had not." 

" Oh, upon my honor !" Jos said, making a motion as if he 
would lay his hand upon the spot in question. " You do me 
injustice, indeed you do — my dear Mrs. Crawley." 

" I do, now your heart is true to your sister. But I remem- 
ber two years ago — when it was false to me !" Rebecca said, 



33^ VANITY FAIR. 

fixing her eyes upon him for an instant, and then turning 
away into the window. 

Jos blushed violently. That organ which he was accused 
by Rebecca of not possessing began to thump tumultuously. 
He recalled the days when he had fled from her, and the 
passion which had once inflamed him — the days when he had 
driven her in his curricle, when she had knit the green purse 
for him, when he had sat, enraptured, gazing at her white 
arms and bright eyes. 

" I know you think me ungrateful," Rebecca continued, 
coming out of the window, and once more looking at him, and 
addressing him in a low, tremulous voice. " Your coldness, 
your averted looks, your manner when we have met of late — 
when I came in just now, all proved it to me. But were 
there no reasons why I should avoid you ? Let your own heart 
answer that question. Do you think my husband was too 
much inclined to welcome you ? The only unkind words I 
have ever had from him (I will do Captain Crawley that jus- 
tice) have been about you — and most cruel, cruel words they 
were." 

" Good gracious ! what have I done ?" asked Jos, in a flurry 
of pleasure and perplexity; " what have I done — to — to — ?" 

" Is jealousy nothing ?" said Rebecca. " He makes me mis- 
erable about you. And whatever it might have been once — 
my heart is all his. I am innocent now. Am I not, Mr. Sed- 
ley?" 

All Jos's blood tingled with delight, as he surveyed this vic- 
tim to his attractions. A few adroit words, one or two know- 
ing, tender glances of the eyes, and his heart was inflamed 
again and his doubts and suspicions forgotten. From Solo- 
mon downward, have not wiser men than he been cajoled 
and befooled by women ? "If the worst comes to the worst," 
Becky thought, " my retreat is secure, and I have a right- 
hand seat in the barouche." 

There is no knowing into what declarations of love and 
ardor the tumultuous passions of Mr. Joseph might have led 
him, if Isidor, the valet, had not made his reappearance at 
this minute, and begun to busy himself about the domestic 
affairs. Jos, who was just going to gasp out an avowal, 
choked almost with the emotion that he was obliged to re- 
strain. Rebecca, too, bethought her that it was time she 
should go in and comfort her dearest Amelia. '' Au revoir,'" 
she said, kissing her hand to Mr. Joseph, and tapped gently 
at the door of his sister's apartment. As she entered and 
closed the door on herself, he sank down in a chair, and gazed 



yOS SEDLEY TAKES CARE OF HIS SISTER. 337 

and sighed and puffed portentously. " That coat is very tight 
for Milor," Isidor said, still having his eye on the frogs ; but 
his master heard him not, his thoughts were elsewhere ; 
now glowing, maddening, upon the contemplation of the en- 
chanting Rebecca ; anon shrinking guiltily before the vision 
of the jealous Rawdon Crawley, with his curling, fierce 
mustachios and his terrible duelling pistols loaded and cocked. 

Rebecca's appearance struck Amelia with terror, and made 
her shrink back. It recalled her to the world and the re- 
membrance of yesterday. In the overpowering fears about 
to-morrow she had forgotten Rebecca — jealousy — everything 
except that her husband was gone and was in danger. Until 
this dauntless worldling came in and broke the spell, and lifted 
the latch, we too have forborne to enter into that sad cham- 
ber. How long had that poor girl been on her knees ! what 
hours of speechless prayer and bitter prostration had she 
passed there ! The war-chroniclers who write brilliant stories 
of fight and triumph scarcely tell us of these. These are too 
mean parts of the pageant : and you don't hear widows' 
cries or mothers' sobs in the midst of the shouts and jubi- 
lation in the great chorus of victory. And yet^ when was 
the time that such have not cried out, heart-broken, hum- 
ble protestants, unheard in the uproar of triumph ? 

After the first moment of terror in Amelia's mind — when 
Rebecca's green eyes lighted upon her, and rustling in her 
fresh silks and brilliant ornaments, the latter tripped up with 
extended arms to embrace her — a feeling of anger succeeded, 
and from being deadly pale before, her face flushed up red, 
and she returned Rebecca's look after a moment with a stead- 
iness which surprised and somewhat abashed her rival. 

" Dearest Amelia, you are very unwell," the visitor said, 
putting forth her hand to take Amelia's. " What is it ? I 
could not rest until I knew how you were." 

Amelia drew back her hand — never since her life began had 
that gentle soul refused to believe or to answer any demon- 
stration of good-will or affection. But she drew back her hand, 
and trembled all over, " Why are _>w/ here, Rebecca ?" she 
said, still looking at her solemnly with her large eyes. These 
glances troubled her visitor. 

" She must have seen him give me the letter at the ball," 
Rebecca thought. " Don't be agitated, dear Amelia," she said, 
looking down. " I came but to see if I could — if you were 
well." 

" Are you well ?" said Amelia. " I dare say you are. You 
don't love your husband. You would not be here if you 



33^ VAN/TV FAIR. 

did. Tell me, Rebecca, did I ever do you anything but kind- 
ness ?" 

" Indeed, Amelia, no," the other said, still hanging down 
her head. 

" When you were quite poor, who was it that befriended 
you ? Was I not a sister to you ? You saw us all in happier 
days before he married me. I was all in all then to him, or 
would he have given up his fortune, his family, as he nobly 
did to make me happy? Why did you come between my love 
and me ? Who sent you to separate those whom God joined, 
and take my darling's heart from me — my own husband ? 
Do you think you could love him as I did ? His love was ev- 
erything to me. You knew it, and wanted to rob me of it. 
For shame, Rebecca ; bad and wicked woman— false friend 
and false wife." 

" Amelia, I protest before God, I have done my husband no 
wrong, ' ' Rebecca said, turning from her. 

"Have you done me no wrong, Rebecca? You did not 
succeed, but you tried. Ask your heart if you did not." 

She knows nothing, Rebecca thought. 

" He came back to me. I knew he would. I knew that no 
falsehood, no flattery, could keep him from me long. I knew 
he would come. I prayed so that he should." 

The poor girl spoke these words with a spirit and volu- 
bility which Rebecca had never before seen in her, and before 
which the latter was quite dumb. " But what have I done 
to you," she continued in a more pitiful tone, " that you 
should try and take him from me ? I had him but for six 
weeks. You might have spared me those, Rebecca. And 
yet, from the very first day of our wedding, you came and 
blighted it. Now he is gone, are you come to see how unhap- 
py I am ?" she continued. " You made me wretched enough 
for the past fortnight ; you might have spared me to-day." 

" I — I never came here," interposed Rebecca, with unlucky 
truth. 

[' No. You didn't come. You took him away. Are you 
come to fetch him from me ?" she continued in a wilder tone. 
" He was here, but he is gone now. There on that very sofa 
he sat. Don't touch it. We sat and talked there. I was on 
his knee, and my arms were round his neck, and we said 
' Our Father.' Yes, he was here ; and they came and took 
him awa}^ but he promised me to come back." 

" He will come back, my dear," said Rebecca, touched in 
spite of herself. 

" Look," said Amelia, " this is his sash — isn't it a pretty 



yOS SEDLEY TAKES CARE OF HIS SISTER. -^^9 

color?" and she took up the fringe and kissed it. She had 
tied it round her waist at some part of the day. She had for- 
gotten her anger, her jealousy, the very presence of her rival 
seemingly. For she walked silently and almost with a smile 
on her face, toward the bed, and began to smooth down 
George's pillow. 

Rebecca walked, too, silently away. "How is Amelia?" 
asked Jos, who still held his position in the chair. 

" There should be somebody with her," said Rebecca. " I 
think she is very unwell ;" and she went away with a very 
grave face, refusing Mr. Sedley's entreaties that she would 
stay and partake of the early dinner which he had ordered. 

Rebecca was of a good-natured and obliging disposition, 
and she liked Amelia rather than otherwise. Even her hard 
words, reproachful as they were, were complimentary — the 
groans of a person stinging under defeat. Meeting Mrs. 
O'Dowd, whom the dean's sermons had by no means com- 
forted, and who was walking very disconsolately in the Pare, 
Rebecca accosted the latter, rather to the surprise of the 
major's wife, who was not accustomed to such marks of polite- 
ness from Mrs. Rawdon Crawley, and informing her that poor 
little Mrs. Osborne was in a desperate condition, and almost 
mad with grief, sent off the good-natured Irishwoman straight 
to see if she could console her young favorite. 

" I've cares of my own enough," Mrs. O'Dowd said, brave- 
ly, " and I thought poor Amelia would be little wanting for 
company this day. But if she's so bad as you say, and you 
can't attend to her, who used to be so fond of her, faith I'll 
see if I can be of service. And so good marning to ye, 
madam ;" w^ith which speech and a toss of her head, the lady 
of the repayther took a farewell of Mrs. Crawley, whose com- 
pany she by no means courted. 

Becky watched her marching off, with a smile on her lip. 
She had the keenest sense of humor, and the Parthian look 
which the retreating Mrs. O'Dowd flung over her shoulder 
almost upset Mrs. Crawley's gravity. " My service to ye, me 
fine madam, and I'm glad to see ye so cheerful," thought 
Peggy. " It's viol you that will cry your eyes out with grief, 
any way." And with this she passed on, and speedily found 
her way to Mrs. Osborne's lodgings. 

The poor soul was still at the bedside, where Rebecca had 
left her, and stood almost crazy with grief. The major's wife, 
a stronger-minded woman, endeavored her best to comfort 
her young friend. " You must bear up, Amelia, dear," she 



340 VANITY FAIR. 

said kindly, " for he musn't find you ill when he sends for 
you after the victory. It's not you are the only woman that 
are in the hands of God this day." 

"I know that. I am very wicked, very weak," Amelia said. 
She knew her own weakness well enough. The presence of 
the more resolute friend checked it, however, and she was the 
better of this control and company. They went on till two 
o'clock ; their hearts were with the column as it marched 
farther and farther away. Dreadful doubt and anguish — 
prayers and fears and griefs unspeakable — followed the regi- 
ment. It was the women's tribute to the war. It taxes both 
alike, and takes the blood of the men, and the tears of the 
women. 

At half-past two, an event occurred of daily importance to 
Mr. Joseph — the dinner hour arrived. Warriors may fight 
and perish, but he must dine. He came into Amelia's 
room to see if he could coax her to share that meal. " Try," 
said he ; " the soup is very good. Do try, Emmy," and he 
kissed her hand. Except when she was married, he had not 
done so much for years before. " You are very good and 
kind, Joseph," she said. " Everybody is, but, if you please, 
I will stay in my room to-day." 

The savor of the soup, however, was agreeable to Mrs. 
O'Dowd's nostrils, and she thought she would bear Mr. Jos 
company. So the two sat down to their meal. " God bless 
the meat," said the major's wife solemnly ; she was thinking 
of her honest Mick, riding at the head of his regiment : 
" 'Tis but a bad dinner those poor boys will get to-day," she 
said, with a sigh, and then, like a philosopher, fell to. 

Jos's spirits rose with his meal. He would drink the regi- 
ment's health ; or. indeed, take any other excuse to indulge 
in a glass of champagne. " We'll drink to O'Dowd and the 
brave — th," said he, bowing gallantly to his guest. " Hey, 
Mrs. O'Dowd ? Fill Mrs. O'Dowd's glass, Isidor." 

But all of a sudden, Isidor started, and the major's wife 
laid down her knife and fork. The windows of the room were 
open, and looked southward, and a dull distant sound came 
over the sun-lighted roofs from that direction. " What is 
it ?" said Jos. *' Why don't you pour, you rascal ?" 

" Cest le feic!"' said Isidor, running to the balcony. 

" God defend us, it's cannon !" Mrs. O'Dowd cried, start- 
ing up, and followed too to the window. A thousand pale 
and anxious faces might have been seen looking from other 
casements. And presently it seemed as if the whole popula- 
tion of the city rushed into the streets. 



y05 TAKES FLIGHT, AND THE WAR CLOSES. 341 




CHAPTER XXXII. 

IN WHICH JOS TAKES FLIGHT, AND THE WAR IS BROUGHT TO A 

CLOSE. 

E of peaceful London 
City have never be- 
held — and please 
God never shall wit- 
ness — such a scene 
of hurry and alarm, 
as that which Brus- 
sels presented. 
Crowds rushed to 
the Namur gate, 
from which direc- 
tion the noise pro- 
ceeded, and many 
rode along the level 
chaussee, to be in ad- 
vance of any intelligence from the army. Each man asked 
his neighbor for news, and even great English lords and 
ladies condescended to speak to persons whom they did not 
know. The friends of the French were abroad, wild with 
excitement, and prophesying the triumph of their emperor. 
The merchants closed their shops, and came out to swell the 
general chorus of alarm and clamor. Women rushed to the 
churches, and crowded the chapels, and knelt and prayed on 
the flags and steps. The dull sound of the cannon went on 
rolling, rolling. Presently carriages with travellers began to 
leave the town, galloping away by the Ghent barrier. The 
prophecies of the French partisans began to pass for facts. 
" He has cut the armies in two," it was said. " He is march- 
ing straight on Brussels. He will overpower the English and 
be here to-night. " " He will overpower the English, ' ' shrieked 
Isidor to his master, " and will be here to-night." The man 
bounded in and out from the lodgings to the street, always 
returning with some fresh particulars of disaster. Jos's face 
grew paler and paler. Alarm began to take entire possession 



342 VANITY FAIR. 

of the stout civilian. All the champagne he drank brought- 
no courage to him. Before sunset he was worked up to such 
a pitch of nervousness as gratified his friend Isidor to be- 
hold, who now counted surely upon the spoils of the owner 
of the laced coat. 

The women were away all this time. After hearing the firing 
for a moment, the stout major's wife bethought her of her 
friend in the next chamber, and ran in to watch and, if possi- 
ble, to console Amelia. The idea that she had that helpless, 
and gentle creature to protect, gave additional strength to 
the natural courage of the honest Irishwoman. She passed 
five hours by her friend's side, sometimes in remonstrance, 
sometimes talking cheerfully, oftener in silence and terrified 
mental supplication. " I never let go her hand once," said 
the stout lady afterward, '* until after sunset, when the firing 
was over." Pauline, the bomie, was on her knees at church 
hard by, praying for son homme a elle. 

When the noise of the cannonading was over, Mrs. O'Dowd 
issued out of Amelia's room into the parlor adjoining, where 
Jos sat with two emptied flasks, and courage entirely gone. 
Once or twice he had ventured into his sister's bedroom, look- 
ing very much alarmed, and as if he would say something. 
But the major's wife kept her place, and he went away with- 
out disburdening himself of his speech. He was ashamed 
to tell her that he wanted to fly. 

But when she made her appearance in the dining-room,, 
where he sat in the twilight in the cheerless company of his. 
empty champagne bottles, he began to open his mind to her. 

" Mrs. O'Dowd," he said, " hadn't you better get Amelia 
ready ?" 

"Are you going to take her out for a walk ?" said the 
major's lady ; " sure she's too weak to stir." 

" I — I've ordered the carriage," he said, " and — and post- 
horses ; Isidor is gone for them," Jos continued. 

" What do you want with driving to-night?" answered the 
lady. " Isn't she better on her bed ? I've just got her to lie 
down." 

" Get her up," said Jos ; " she must get up, I say ;" and 
he stamped his foot energetically. " I say the horses are or- 
dered — yes, the horses are ordered. It's all over, and — " 

" And what ?" asked Mrs. O'Dowd. 

" I'm off for Ghent," Jos answered. '* Everybody is go- 
ing ; there's a place for you ! We shall start in half an hour.*' 

The major's wife looked at him with infinite scorn. " I 
don't move till O'Dowd gives me the route," said she. " Yoa 



yOS TAKES FLIGHT^, AND THE WAR CLOSES. 343; 

may go if you like, Mr. Sedley ; but, faith, Amelia and I 
stop here." 

"She j-/^^// go," said Jos, with another stamp of his foot. 
Mrs. O'Dowd put herself with arms akimbo before the bed- 
room door. 

" Is it her mother you're going to take her to ?" she said ;: 
"or do you want to go to mamma yourself, Mr. Sedley ?' 
Good marning: — a pleasant journey to ye, sir. Bon voyage, as 
they say, and take my counsel, and shave off them mus- 
tachios, or they'll bring you into mischief." 

" D — n !" yelled out Jos, wild with fear, rage, and mortifi- 
cation ; and Isidor came in at this juncture, swearing in his 
turn. " Pas de chevaux, sacre bleuT' hissed out the furious do- 
mestic. All the horses were gone. Jos was not the only man 
in Brussels seized with panic that day. 

But Jos's fears, great and cruel as they were already, were 
to destined increase to an almost frantic pitch before the 
night was over. It has been mentioned how Pauline, the 
bonne, had son homme a elle also in the ranks of the army that 
had gone out to meet the Emperor Napoleon. This lover 
was a native of Brussels, and a Belgian hussar. The troops 
of his nation signalized themselves in this war for an5^thing 
but courage, and young Van Cutsum, Pauline's admirer, was 
too good a soldier to disobey his colonel's orders to run away. 
While in garrison at Brussels, young Regulus (he had been 
born in the revolutionary times) found his great comfort, 
and passed almost all his leisure moments, in Pauline's kitch- 
en ; and it was with pockets and holsters crammed full of 
good things from her larder that he had taken leave of his 
weeping sweetheart, to proceed upon the campaign a few 
days before. 

As far as his regiment was concerned, this campaign was 
over now. They had formed a part of the division under the 
command of his sovereign apparent, the Prince of Orange, 
and as respected length of swords and mustachios, and the 
richness of uniform and equipments, Regulus and his com- 
rades looked to be as gallant a body of men as ever trumpet 
sounded for. 

When Ney dashed upon the advance of the allied troops, 
carrying one position after the other, until the arrival of the 
great body of the British army from Brussels changed the 
aspect of the combat of Quatre Bras, the squadrons among 
which Regulus rode showed the greatest activity in retreating 
before the French, and were dislodged from one post and 
another which they occupied with perfect alacrity on their 



344 



VANITY FAIR. 



part. Their movements were only checked by the advance of 
the British in their rear. Thus forced to halt, the enemy's 
cavalry (whose bloodthirsty obstinacy cannot be too severely 
reprehended) had at length an opportunity of coming to close 
quarters with the brave Belgians before them ; who preferred 
to encounter the British rather than the French, and at once 
turning tail, rode through the English regiments that were 
behind them, and scattered in all directions. The regiment 
in fact did not exist any more. It was nowhere. It had no 
headquarters. Regulus found himself galloping many miles 
from the field of action, entirely alone ; and whither should 
he fly for refuge so naturally as to that kitchen and those faith- 
ful arms in which Pauline had so often welcomed him ? 

At some ten o'clock the clinking of a sabre might have been 
heard up the stair of the house where the Osbornes occupied 
a story in the Continental fashion. A knock might have been 
heard at the kitchen door ; and poor Pauline, come back from 
church, fainted almost with terror as she opened it and saw 
before her her haggard hussar. He looked as pale as the mid- 




night dragoon who came to disturb Leonora. Pauline would 
have screamed, but that her cry would have called her mas- 
ters, and discovered her friend. She stifled her scream, then 



yOS TAKES FLIGHT, AND THE WAR CLOSES. 345 

and leading her hero into the kitchen, gave him beer and the 
choice bits from the dinner which Jos had not had the heart 
to taste. The hussar showed he was no ghost by the prodi- 
gious quantity of flesh and beer which he devoured — and dur- 
ing the mouthfuls he told his tale of disaster. 

His regiment had performed prodigies of courage, and had 
withstood for a while the onset of the whole French army. 
But they were overwhelmed at last, as was the whole British 
army by this time. Ney destroyed each regiment as it came 
up. The Belgians in vain interposed to prevent the butchery 
of the English. The Brunswickers were routed and had fled 
— their duke was killed. It was a general debacle. He sought 
to drown his sorrow for the defeat in floods of beer. 

Isidor, who had come into the kitchen, heard the conver- 
sation and rushed out to inform his master. " It is all over," 
he shrieked to Jos. " Milor Duke is a prisoner ; the Duke of 
Brunswick is killed ; ihe British army is in full flight ; there 
is only one man escaped, and he is in the kitchen now — come 
and hear him." So Jos tottered into that apartment where 
Regulus still sat on the kitchen table, and clung fast to his 
flagon of beer. In the best French which he could muster, 
and which was in sooth of a very ungrammatical sort, Jos be- 
sought the hussar to tell his tale. The disasters deepened as 
Regulus spoke. He was the only man of his regiment not 
slain on the field. He had seen the Duke of Brunswick fall, 
the black hussars fly, the Ecossais pounded down by the can- 
non. 

" And the — th ?" gasped Jos. 

" Cut in pieces," said the hussar — upon which Pauline cried 
out, " O my mistress, ma bonne petite dame,''' went off fairly into 
hysterics, and filled the house with her screams. 

Wild with terror, Mr. Sedley knew not how or where to seek 
for safety. He rushed from the kitchen back to the sitting- 
room, and cast an appealing look at Amelia's door, which Mrs. 
O'Dowd had closed and locked in his face ; but he remem- 
bered how scornfully the latter had received him, and after 
pausing and listening for a brief space at the door, he left it, 
and resolved to go into the street, for the first time that day. 
So, seizing a candle, he looked about for his gold-laced cap, 
and found it lying in its usual place, on a console-table in 
the ante-room, placed before a mirror at which Jos used to 
coquet, always giving his side-locks a twirl, and his cap the 
proper cock over his eye, before he went forth to make ap- 
pearance in public. Such is the force of habit, that even in 



346 



VANITY FAIR. 



the midst of his terror he began mechanically to twiddle 
with his hair, and arrange the cock of his hat. Then he looked 
amazed at the paleface in the glass before him, and especially 
at his mustachios, which had attained a rich growth in the 
course of near seven weeks, since they had come into the 
world. They will mistake me for a military man, thought 
he, remembering Isidor's warning as to the massacre with 




which all the defeated British army was threatened, and stag- 
gering back to his bedchamber, he began wildly pulling the 
bell which summoned his valet. 

Isidor answered that summons. Jos had sunk in a chair — 
lie had torn off his neck-cloths, and turned down his collars, 
.and was sitting with both his hands lifted to his throat. 




Mn. Jos SHAVES OFF HIS MuSTACHIOS= 



yOS TAKES FLIGHT, AND THE WAR CLOSES. 347 

" Coupez-moi, Isidor," shouted he ; '^ vite ! Coupez-moi !'' 

Isidor thought for a moment he had gone mad, and that 
Tie wished his valet to cut his throat. 

'' Les moustaches^'' ^SiSp^d Jos; '' les moustaches — coupy^ rasy^ 
vite !'' — his French was of this sort — voluble as we have said, 
but not remarkable for grammar. 

Isidor swept off the mustachios in no time with the razor, 
and heard with inexpressible delight his master's orders that 
he should fetch a hat and a plain coat. '' Ne party ploo — habit 
militair — bomiy — donny a voo, prenny dehors'" — were Jos's words 
— the coat and cap were at last his property. 

This gift being made, Jos selected a plain black coat and 
waistcoat from his stock, and put on a large white neckcloth 
and a plain beaver. If he could have got a shovel hat he would 
have worn it. As it was, you would have fancied he was a 
flourishing, large parson of the Church of England. 

" Venny matnteno?ig^'' he continued, '' sweevy — ally — party — 
■dong la roo.'' And so having said, he plunged swiftly down 
the stairs of the house, and passed into the street. 

Although Regulus had vowed that he was the only man of 
his regiment or of the allied army, almost, who had escaped 
being cut to pieces by Ney, it appeared that his statement was 
incorrect, and that a good number more of the supposed vic- 
tims had survived the massacre. Many scores of Regulus's 
comrades had found their way back to Brussels, and — all agree- 
ing that they had run away — filled the whole town with an 
idea of the defeat of the allies. The arrival of the French 
was expected hourly ; the panic continued, and preparations 
for flight went on everywhere. No horses! thought Jos, in 
terror. He made Isidor inquire of scores of persons whether 
they had any to lend or sell, and his heart sank within him 
at the negative answers returned everywhere. Should he take 
the journey on foot ? Even fear could not render that pon- 
derous body so active. 

Almost all the hotels occupied by the English in Brussels 
face the Pare, and Jos wandered irresolutely about in this 
quarter, with crowds of other people, oppressed as he was by 
fear and curiosity. Some families he saw more happy than 
himself, having discovered a team of horses, and rattling 
though the streets in retreat ; others, again, there were whose 
case was like his own, and who could not for anv bribes or en- 
treaties procure the necessary means of flight. Among these 
would-be fugitives, Jos remarked the Lady Bareacres and her 
daughter who sat in their carriage in tho. porte-cochere of their 
hotel, all their imperials packed, and the only drawback to 



34^ VANITY FAIR, 

whose flight was the same want of motive power which kept 
Jos stationary. 

Rebecca Crawley occupied apartments in this hotel, and 
had before this period had sundry hostile meetings with the 
ladies of the Bareacres family. My Lady Bareacres cut Mrs. 
Crawley on the stairs when they met by chance, and in all 
places where the latter's name was mentioned, spoke persever- 
ingly ill of her neighbor. The countess was shocked at the 
familiarity of General Tufto with the aide-de-camp's wife. 
The Lady Blanche avoided her as if she had been an infectious 
disease. Only the earl himself kept up a sly occasional ac- 
quaintance with her, when out of the jurisdiction of his 
ladies. 

Rebecca had her revenge now upon these insolent enemies. 
It became known in the hotel that Captain Crawley's horses 
had been left behind, and when the panic began, Lady Bare- 
acres condescended to send her maid to the captain's wife 
with her ladyship's compliments, and a desire to know the 
price of Mrs. Crawley's horses. Mrs. Crawley returned a note 
with her compliments, and an intimation that it was not her 
custom to transact bargains with ladies' maids. 

This curt reply brought the earl in person to Becky's apart- 
ment ; but he could get no more success than the first am- 
bassador. " Send a lady's maid to 7ne T Mrs. Crawley cried 
in great anger ; " why didn't my Lady Bareacres tell me to go 
and saddle the horses ! Is it her ladyship that wants to escape, 
or her ladyship's />;;z;/^<? de cha7nbre .?" 

And this was all the answer that the earl bore back to his 
countess. 

What will not necessity do ? The countess herself actually 
came to wait upon Mrs. Crawley, on the failure of her second 
envoy. She entreated her to name her own price ; she even 
offered to invite Becky to Bareacres House, if the latter would 
but give her the means of returning to that residence. Mrs. 
Crawley sneered at her. 

" I don't want to be waited on by bailiffs in livery," she 
said ; " you will never get back though, most probably — at 
least not you and your diamonds together. The French 
will have those. They will be here in two hours, and I shall 
be half way to Ghent by that time. I would not sell you 
my horses, no, not for the two largest diamonds that your 
ladyship wore at the ball." Lady Bareacres trembled with 
rage and terror. The diamonds were sewed into her habit, 
and secreted in my lord's padding and boots. "Woman, 
the diamonds are at the banker's and I will have the 



li 



yOS TAKES FLIGHT, AND THE WAR CLOSES, 349 

horses," she said. Rebecca laughed in her face. The infu- 
riate countess went below, and sat in her carriage ; her maid, 
her courier, and her husband were sent once more through 
the town, each to look for cattle, and woe betide those who 
came last ! Her ladyship was resolved on departing the very 
instant the horses arrived from any quarter — with her husband 
or without him. 

Rebecca had the pleasure of seeing her ladyship in the horse- 
less cariage, and keeping her eyes fixed upon her, and bewail- 
ing, in the loudest tone of voice, the countess's perplexities. 
" Not to be able to get horses !" she said, " and to have 
all those diamonds sewed into the carriage cushions ! What 
a prize it will be for the French when they come ! — the car- 
riage and the diamonds, I mean ; not the lady ? She gave 
this information to the landlord, to the servants, to the 
guests, and the innumerable stragglers about the court-yard. 
Lady Bareacres could have shot her from the carriage window. 

It was while enjoying the humiliation of her enemy that 
Rebecca caught sight of Jos, who made toward her directly 
he perceived her. 

That altered, frightened, fat face told his secret well enough. 
He too wanted to fly, and was on the look-out for the means 
of escape. ''He shall buy my horses," thought Rebecca; 
" and I'll ride the mare." 

Jos walked up to his friend, and put the question for the 
hundredth time during the past hour, " Did she know where 
horses were to be had ?" 

" What, yotc fly ?" said Rebecca, with a laugh. " I thought 
you were the champion of all the ladies, Mr. Sedley." 

" I — I'm not a military man," gasped he. 

" And Amelia? Who is to protect that poor little sister of 
yours ^" asked Rebecca. "You surely would not desert 
her?". 

"What good can I do her, suppose — suppose the enemy 
arrive ?" Jos answered. " They'll spare the women ; but my 
man tells me that they have taken an oath to give no quarter 
to the men —the dastardly cowards." 

" Horrid !" cried Rebecca, enjoying his perplexity. 

" Besides, I don't want to desert her," cried the brother. 
" She shan't be deserted. There is a seat for her in my car- 
riage, and one for you, dear Mrs. Crawley, if you will come, 
and if we can get horses," sighed he. 

" I have two to sell," the lady said. Jos could have flung 
himself into her arms at the news. " Get the carriage, Isi- 
dor," he cried ; " we've found them — we have found them." 



35° VANITY FAIR. 

' ' My horses never were in harness, ' ' added the lady. "* Bull- 
finch would kick the carriage to pieces, if you put him in the 
traces." 

" But he is quiet to ride ?" asked the civilian. 

" As quiet as a lamb, and as fast as a hare," answered Re- 
becca. 

" Do you think he is up to my weight ?" Jos said. He was 
already on his back, in imagination, without ever so much as 
a thought for poor Amelia. What person who loved a horse- 
speculation could resist such a temptation ? 

In reply, Rebecca asked him to come into her room, whither 
he followed her, quite breathless to conclude the bargain. 
Jos seldom spent a half hour in his life which cost him so much 
money. Rebecca, measuring the value of the goods which 
she had for sale b}^ Jos's eagerness to purchase, as well as by 
the scarcity of the article, put upon her horses a price so pro- 
digious as to make even the civilian draw back. " She would 
sell both or neither," she said, resolutely. Rawdon had 
ordered her not to part with them for a. price less than that 
which she specified. Lord Bareacres below would give her 
the same money — and with all her love and regard for the 
Sedley family, her dear Mr. Joseph must conceive that poor 
people must live — nobody, in a word, could be more affection- 
ate, but more firm about the matter of business. 

Jos ended by agreeing, as might be supposed of him. The 
sum he had to give her was so large that he was obliged to 
ask for time ; so large as to be a little fortune to Rebecca, who 
rapidly calculated that with this sum, and the sale of the 
residue of Rawdon's effects, and her pension as a widow 
should he fall, she would now be absolutely independent of 
the world, and might look her weeds steadily in the face. 

Once or twice in the day she certainly had herself thought 
about flying. But her reason gave her better counsel. " Sup- 
pose the French do come," thought Becky, "what can 
they do to a poor officer's widow ? Bah ! the times of sacks 
and sieges are over. We shall be let to go home quietly, or I 
may live pleasantly abroad with a snug little income." 

Meanwhile Jos and Isidor went off to the stables to inspect 
tlie newly-purchased cattle. Jos bade his man saddle the 
horses at once. He would ride away that very night, that 
very hour. And he left the valet busy in getting the horses 
ready, and went homeward himself to prepare for his depar- 
ture. It must be secret. He would go to his chamber by 
the back entrance. He did not care to face Mrs. O'Dowd 
and Amelia, and own to them that he was about to run. 



yOS TAKES FLIGHT, AND THE WAR CLOSES. 351 

By the time Jos's bargain with Rebecca was completed, 
and his horses had been visited and examined, it was almost 
morning once more. But though midnight was long passed, 
there was no rest for the city ; the people were up, the lights 
in the houses flamed, crowds were still about the doors, and 
the streets were busy. Rumors of various natures went still 
from mouth to mouth. One report averred that the Prussians 
had been utterly defeated ; another that it was the English 
who had been attacked and conquered ; a third that the lat- 
ter had held their ground. This last rumor gradually got 
strength. No Frenchmen had made their appearance. Strag- 
glers had come in from the army bringing reports more and 
more favorable. At last an aide-de-camp actually reached 
Brussels with dispatches for the commandant of the place, 
who placarded presently through the town an official an- 
nouncement of the success of the allies at Quatre Bras, and 
the entire repulse of the French under Ney after a six hours' 
battle. The aide-de-camp must have arrived sometime while 
Jos and Rebecca were making their bargain together, or the 
latter was inspecting his purchase. When he reached his own 
hotel, he found a score of its numerous inhabitants on the 
threshold discoursing of the news ; there was no doubt as to 
its truth. And he went up to communicate it to the ladies 
under his charge. He did not think it was necessary to tell 
them how he had intended to take leave of them, how he 
had bought horses, and what a price he had paid for them. 

But success or defeat was a minor matter to them, who 
had only thought for the safety of those they loved. Amelia, 
at the news of the victory, became still more agitated even 
than before. She was for going that moment to the army. 
She besought her brother with tears to conduct her thither. 
Her doubts and terrors reached their paroxysm ; and the poor 
girl, who for many hours had been plunged into stupor, raved 
and ran hither and thither in hysteric insanity — a piteous 
sight. No man writhing in pain on the hard-fought field fif- 
teen miles off, where lay, after their struggles, so many of the 
brave — no man suffered more keenly than this poor harmless 
victim of the war. Jos could not bear the sight of her pain. 
He left his sister in the charge of her stouter female compan- 
ion, and descended once more to the threshold of the hotel, 
where everybody still lingered, and talked, and waited for 
more news. 

It grew to be broad daylight as they stood here, and fresh 
news began to arrive from the war, brought by men who had 
been actors in the scene. Wagons and long country carts 



353 VANITY FAIR. 

laden with wounded came rolling into the town ; ghastly 
groans came from within them, and haggard faces looked up 
sadly from out of the straw. Jos Sedley was looking at one of 
these carriages with a painful curiosity — the moans of the 
people within were frightful — the wearied horses could hardly 
pull the cart. " Stop ! stop !" a feeble voice cried from the 
straw, and the carriage stopped opposite Mr. Sedley's hotel. 

" It is George, I know it is !" cried Amelia, rushing in a 
moment to the balcony, with a pallid face and loose flowing 
hair. It was not George, however, but it was the next best 
thing ; it was news of him. 

It was poor Tom 'Stubble, who had marched out of Brus- 
sels so gallantly twenty-four hours before, bearing the colors 
of the regiment, which he had defended very gallantly upon 
the field. A French lancer had speared the young ensign in 
the leg, who fell, still bravely holding to his flag. At the con- 
clusion of the engagement, a place had been found for the 
poor boy in a cart, and he had been brought back to Brus- 
sels. 

" Mr. Sedley, Mr. Sedley !" cried the boy, faintly, and Jos 
came up almost frightened at the appeal. He had not at first 
distinguished who it was who called him. 

Little Tom Stubble held out his hot and feeble hand. " I'm 
to be taken in here," he said. " Osborne — and — and Dobbin 
said I was ; and you are to give the man two napoleons — my 
mother will pay you." This young fellow's thoughts, during 
the long feverish hours passed in the cart, had been wander- 
ing to his father's parsonage which he had quitted only a 
few months before, and he had sometimes forgotten his pain 
in that delirium. 

The hotel was large, and the people kind, and all the in- 
mates of the cart were taken in and placed on various couches. 
The young ensign was conveyed up-stairs to Osborne's 
quarters. Amelia and the major's wife had rushed dow^n 
to him, when the latter had recognized him from the bal- 
cony. You may fancy the feelings of these women when 
they were told that the day was over, and both their husbands 
were safe ; in what mute rapture Amelia fell on her good 
friend's neck, and embraced her ; in what a grateful passion 
of prayer she fell on her knees, and thanked the Power 
which had saved her husband. 

Our young lady in her fevered and nervous condition, 
could have had no more salutary medicine prescribed for her 
by any physician than that which chance put in her way. She 
and Mrs. O'Dowd watched incessantly by the wounded lad, 



JOS TAKES FLIGHT, AND THE WAR CLOSES. 353 

whose pain was very severe, and in the duty thus forced upon 
her, Amelia had not time to brood over her personal anxieties, 
or to give herself up to her own fears and forebodings after 
her wont. The young patient told in his simple fashion 
the events of the day, and the actions of our friends of the 
gallant — th. They had suffered severely. They had lost 
very many officers and men. The major's horse had been 
shot under him as the regiment charged, and they all thought 
that O'Dowd was gone, and that Dobbin had got his major- 
ity, until on their return from the charge to their old ground, 
the major was discovered seated on Pyramus's carcase, refresh, 
ing himself from a case-bottle. It was Captain Osborne that 
cut down the French lancer who had speared the ensign. Ame- 
lia turned so pale at the notion, that Mrs. O'Dowd stopped the 
young ensign in this story. And it was Captain Dobbin who 
at the end of the day, though wounded himself, took up the 
lad in his arms and carried him to the surgeon, and thence 
to the cart which was to bring him back to Brussels. And it 
was he who promised the driver two louis if he would make 
his way to Mr. Sedley's hotel in the city, and tell Mrs. Cap- 
tain Osborne that the action was over, and that her husband 
was unhurt and well. 

" Indeed, but he has a good heart, that William Dob- 
bin/' Mrs. O'Dowd said, " though he is always laughing at 
me." 

Young Stubble vowed there was not such another officer 
in the army, and never ceased his praises of the senior cap- 
tain, his modesty, his kindness, and his admirable coolness 
in the field. To these parts of the conversation, Amelia lent 
a very distracted attention ; it was only when George was 
spoken of that she listened, and when he was not mentioned, 
she thought about him. 

In tending her patient, and in thinking of the wonderful 
escapes of the day before, her second day passed away not too 
slowly with Amelia. There was only one man in the army 
for her ; and as long as he was well, it must be owned that 
its movements interested her little. All the reports which 
Jos brought from the streets fell very vaguely on her ears, 
though they were sufficient to give that timorous gentleman, 
and many other people then in Brussels, every disquiet. The 
French had been repulsed certainly, but it was after a severe 
and doubtful struggle, and with only a division of the French 
army. The emperor, with the main body, was away at Ligny, 
where he had utterly annihilated the Prussians, and was now 
free to bring his whole force to bear upon the allies. The 



354 VANITY FAIR. 

Duke of Wellington was retreating upon the capital, and a 
great battle must be fought under its walls probably, of which 
the chances were more than doubtful. The Duke of Welling- 
ton had but twenty thousand British troops on whom he 
could rely, for the Germans were raw militia, the Belgians dis- 
affected : and with this handful his grace had to resist a hun- 
dred and fifty thousand men that had broken into Belgium 
under Napoleon. Under Napoleon ! What warrior was 
there, however famous and skilful, that could fight at odds 
with him ? 

Jos thought of all these things, and trembled. So did all 
the rest of Brussek — where people felt that the fight of the 
day before was but the prelude to the greater combat which 
was imminent. One of the armies opposed to the emperor 
was scattered to the winds already. The few English that 
could be brought to resist him would perish at their posts, 
and the conqueror would pass over their bodies into the city. 
Woe be to those whom he found there ! Addresses were 
prepared, public functionaries assembled and debated secretly, 
apartments were got ready, and tricolored banners and tri- 
umphal emblems manufactured, to welcome the arrival of 
his majesty the emperor and king. 

The emigration still continued, and wherever families could 
find means of departure, they fled. When Jos, on the after- 
noon of the 17th of June, went to Rebecca's hotel, he found 
that the great Bareacres carriage had at length rolled away 
from X\\Q porte-cochere. The earl had procured a pair of horses 
somehow, in spite of Mrs. Crawley, and was rolling on the 
road to Ghent. Louis the Desired was getting ready his 
portmanteau in that city, too. It seemed as if misfortune was 
never tired of worrying into motion that unwieldy exile. 

Jos felt that the delay of yesterday had been only a respite, 
and that his dearly bought horses must of a surety be put into 
requisition. His agonies were very severe all this day. As 
long as there was an English army between Brussels and Na- 
poleon, there was no need of immediate flight ; but he had 
his horses brought from their distant stables to the stables in 
the court-yard of the hotel where he lived ; so that they might 
be under his own eyes, and beyond the risk of violent abduc- 
tion. Isidor watched the stable door constantly, and had the 
horses saddled, to be ready for the start. He longed in- 
tensely for that event. 

After the reception of the previous day, Rebecca did not 
care to come near her dear Amelia. She clipped the bouquet 
which George had brought her, and gave fresh water to the 



yOS TAKES FLIGHT, AND THE WAR CLOSES 355 

flowers, and read over the letter which he had sent her. ' ' Poor 
wretch," she said, twirling round the little bit of paper in 
her fingers, " how I could crush her with this ! — and it is for 
a thing like this that she must break her heart, forsooth — for 
a man who is stupid — a coxcomb — and who does not care for 
her. My poor good Rawdon is worth ten of this creature." 
And then she fell to thinking what she should do if — if any- 
thing happened to poor good Rawdon, and what a great piece 
of luck it was that he had left his horses behind. 

In the course of this day, too, Mrs. Crawley, who saw not 
without anger the Bareacres party drive off, bethought her 
of the precaution which the countess had taken, and did a 
little needlework for her own advantage ; she stitched away 
the major part of her trinkets, bills, and bank-notes about her 
person, and so prepared, was ready for any event — to fly if 
she thought fit, or to stay and welcome the conqueror, were 
he Englishman or Frenchman. And I am not sure that she 
did not dream that night of becoming a duchess and Madame 
la Marechale, while Rawdon, wrapped in his cloak and mak- 
ing his bivouac under the rain at Mount Saint John, was 
thinking, with all the force of his heart, about the little wife 
whom he had left behind him. 

The next day was a Sunday. And Mrs. Major O'Dowd had 
the satisfaction of seeing both her patients refreshed in health 
and spirits by some rest which they had taken during the 
night. She herself had slept on a great chair in Amelia's 
room, ready to wait upon her poor friend or the ensign, should 
either need her nursing. When morning came, this robust 
woman went back to the house where she and her major had 
their billet, and here performed an elaborate and splendid 
toilet, befitting the day. And it is very possible that while 
alone in that chamber, which her husband had inhabited, and 
where his cap still lay on the pillow, and his cane stood in the 
corner, one prayer at least was sent up to Heaven for the wel- 
fare of the brave soldier, Michael O'Dowd. 

When she returned she brought her prayer-book with her, 
and her uncle the dean's famous book of sermons, out of 
which she never failed to read every Sabbath ; not under- 
standing all, haply, not pronouncing many, of the words 
aright, which were long and abstruse — for the dean was a 
learned man and loved long Latin words — but with great 
gravity, vast emphasis, and with tolerable correctness in the 
main. How often has my Mick listened to these sermons, she 
thought, and me reading in the cabin of a calm. She pro- 
posed to resume this exercise on the present day, with Amelia 



35^ VANITY FAIR. 

and the wounded ensign for a congregation. The same ser- 
vice was read on that day in twenty thousand churches at the 
same hour, and millions of British men and women, on their 
knees, implored protection of the Father of all. 

They did not hear the noise which disturbed our little con- 
gregation at Brussels. Much louder than that which had 
interrupted them two days previously, as Mrs. O'Dowd was 
reading the service in her best voice, the cannon of Waterloo 
began to roar. 

When Jos heard that dreadful sound, he made up his mind 
that he would be^r this perpetual recurrence of terrors no 
longer, and would fly at once. He rushed into the sick man's 
room, where our three friends had paused in their prayers, 
and further interrupted them by a passionate appeal to 
Amelia. 

" I can't stand it any more, Emmy," he said ; " I won't 
stand it ; and you must come with me. I have bought ahorse 
for you — never mind at what price — and you must dress and 
come with me, and ride behind Isidor." 

" God forgive me, Mr. Sedley, but you are no better than a 
coward," Mrs. O'Dowd said, laying down the book. 

" 1 say come, Amelia," the civilian went on ; " never mind 
what she says ; why are we to stop here and be butchered by 
the Frenchmen ?" 

"You forget the — th, my boy," said the little Stubble, 
the wounded hero, from his bed ; " and — and you won't leave 
me, will you, Mrs. O'Dowd ?" 

" No, my dear fellow," said she, going up and kissing the 
boy. " No harm shall come to you while /stand by. I don't 
budge till I get the word from Mick. A pretty figure I'd be, 
wouldn't I, stuck behind that chap on a pillion ?" 

This image caused the young patient to burst cut laugh- 
ing in his bed, and even made Amelia smile. " I don't ask 
her," Jos shouted out — " I don't ask that — that Irishwoman, 
but you, Amelia ; once for all, will you come ?" 

" Without my husband, Joseph ?" Amelia said, with a look 
of wonder, and gave her hand to the major's wife. Jos's 
patience was exhausted. 

" Good-by, then," he said, shaking his fist in a rage, and 
slamming the door by which he retreated. And this time he 
really gave his order for march : and mounted in the court- 
yard. Mrs. O'Dowd heard the clattering hoofs of the horses 
as they issued from the gate ; and looking on, made many 
scornful remarks on poor Joseph as he rode down the street, 
with Isidor after him in the laced cap. The horses, which had 



yOS TAKES FLIGHT, AND THE WAR CLOSES. 357 

not been exercised for some days, were lively, and sprang 
about the street. Jos, a clumsy and timid horseman, did not 
look to advantage in the saddle. " Look at him, Amelia dear, 
driving into the parlor window. Such a bull in a china 
shop / never saw." And presently the pair of riders disap- 
peared at canter down the street leading in the direction of 
the Ghent road, Mrs. O'Dowd pursuing them with a fire of 
sarcasm so long as they were in sight. 

All that day from morning until past sunset the cannon 
never ceased to roar. It was dark when the cannonading 
stopped all of a sudden. 

All of us have read of what occurred during that inter- 
val. The tale is in every Englishman's mouth ; and you and 
I, who were children when the great battle was won and lost, 
are never tired of hearing and recounting the history of that 
famous action. Its remembrance rankles still in the bosoms 
of millions of the countrymen of those brave men who lost 
the day. They pant for an opportunity of revenging thac 
humiliation ; and if a contest, ending in a victory on their 
part, should ensue, elating them in their turn, and leaving 
its cursed legacy of hatred and rage behind to us, there 
is no end to the so-called glory and shame, and to the alter- 
nations of successful and unsuccessful murder, in which 
two high-spirited nations might engage. Centuries hence, 
we Frenchmen and Englishmen might be boasting and 
killing each other still, carrying out bravely the devil's code 
of honor. 

All our friends took their share and fought like men in 
the great field. All day long, while the women were praying 
ten miles away, the lines of the dauntless English infantry 
were receiving and repelling the furious charges of the French 
horsemen. Guns which were heard at Brussels were plough- 
ing up their ranks, and comrades falling, and the resolute 
survivors closing in. Toward evening, the attack of the 
French, repeated and resisted so bravely, slackened in its fury. 
They had other foes besides the British to engage, or were pre- 
paring for a final onset. It came at last : the columns of the 
Imperial Guard marched up the hill of Saint Jean, at length 
and at once to sweep the English from the height which 
they had maintained all day, and spite of all : unscared by 
the thunder of the artillery, which hurled death from the Eng- 
lish line — the dark rolling column pressed on and up the 
hill. It seemed almost to crest the eminence, when it began 
to waver and falter. Then it stopped, still facing the shot. 
Then at last the English troops rushed from the post from 



35S VANITY FAIR. 

which no enemy had been able to dislodge them, and the 
Guard turned and fled. 

No more firing was heard at Brussels — the pursuit rolled 
miles away. Darkness came down on the field and city : and 
Amelia was praying for George, who was lying on his face, 
dead; with a bullet through his heart 



ANXIETY OF MISS CRA WLE TS RELA TIONS, 



359' 



CHAPTER XXXIII. 



IN WHICH MISS CRAWLEY S RELATIONS ARE VERY ANXIOUS ABOUT 

HER. 




HE kind reader must please- 
to remember — while the ar- 
my is marching from Flan- 
ders, and after its heroic ac- 
tions there, is advancing to 
take the fortifications on the 
frontiers of France, previous 
to an occupation of that 
country — that there are a 
number of persons living 
peaceably in England who 
have to do with the history 
at present in hand, and 
must come in for their share 
of the chronicle. During 
the time of these battles and 
dangers, old Miss Crawley 
was living at Brighton, very moderately moved by the great- 
events that were going on. The great events rendered the 
newspapers rather interesting, to be sure, and Briggs read, 
out the Gazette in which Rawdon Crawley's gallantry was 
mentioned with honor, and his promotion was presently re- 
corded. 

What a pity that young man has taken such an irretrievable 
step in the world !" his aunt said ; " with his rank and dis- 
tinction he might have married a brewer's daughter with a. 
quarter of a million — like Miss Grains ; or have looked to 
ally himself with the best families in England. He would 
have had my money some day or other ; or his children would 
— for I'm not in a hurry to go. Miss Briggs, although you may 
be in a hurry to be rid of me ; and instead of that, he is a 
doomed pauper, with a dancing-girl for a wife." 

" Will my dear Miss Crawley not cast an eye of compassion 
upon the heroic soldier whose name is inscribed in the annals. 



3^0 VANITY FAIR. 

of his country's glory ?" said Miss Briggs, who was greatly 
excited by the Waterloo proceedings, and loved speaking 
romantically when there was an occasion, " Has not the 
captain — or the colonel as I may now style him — done deeds 
which make the name of Crawley illustrious ?" 

" Briggs, you are a fool," said Miss Crawley ; " Colonel 
Crawlev has dragged the name of Crawley through the mud, 
Miss Briggs. Marry a drawing-master's daughter, indeed ! — 
marry a dame de compagnie — for she was no better, Briggs ; 
no, she was just what you are — only younger, and a great 
deal prettier and cleverer. Were you an accomplice of that 
abandoned wretch, I wonder, of whose vile arts he became a 
victim, and of whom you used to be such an admirer ? Yes, I 
daresay you were an accomplice. But you will find yourself 
disappointed in my will, I can tell you ; and you will have 
the goodness to write to Mr. Waxy, and say that I desire to 
see him immediately." Miss Crawley was now in the habit 
of writing to Mr. Waxy her solicitor almost every day in the 
week, for her arrangements respecting her property were all 
revoked, and her perplexity was great as to the future dispo- 
sition of her money. 

The spinster had, however, rallied considerably ; as was 
proved by the increased vigor and frequency of her sarcasms 
upon Miss Briggs, all which attacks the poor companion bore 
with meekness, with cowardice, with a resignation that was 
half generous and half hypocritical — with the slavish sub- 
mission, in a word, that women of her disposition and station 
are compelled to show. Who has not seen how women bully 
women ? What tortures have men to endure, comparable to 
those daily repeated shafts of scorn and cruelty with which 
poor women are riddled by the tyrants of their sex ? Poor 
victims ! But we are starting from our proposition, which 
is, that Miss Crawley was always particularly annoying and 
savage when she was rallying from illness — as they say wounds 
tingle most when they are about to heal. 

While thus approaching, as all hoped, to convalescence, 
Miss Briggs was the only victim admitted into the presence 
of the invalid ; yet Miss Crawley's relatives afar off did not 
forget their beloved kinswoman, and by a number of tokens, 
presents, and kind, affectionate messages, strove to keep them- 
selves alive in her recollection. 

In the first place, let us mention her nephew, Rawdon Craw- 
ley. A few weeks after the famous fight of Waterloo, and 
after the Gazette had made known to her the promotion and 
gallantry of that distinguished officer, the Dieppe packet 



A NX IE TY OF MISS CRA WLE Y' S RE LA TIONS. 36 1 

brought over to Miss Crawley at Brighton, a box containing 
presents, and a dutiful letter, from the colonel her nephew. 
In the box were a pair of French epaulets, a Cross r,f the 
Legion of Honor, and the hilt of a sword — relics from the field 
of battle ; and the letter described with a good deal of humor 
how the latter belonged to a commanding officer of the Guard, 
who having sworn that " the Guard died, but never surren- 
dered," was taken prisoner the next minute by a private sol- 
dier, who broke the Frenchman's sword with the butt of his 
musket, when Rawdon made himself master of the shattered 
weapon. As for the cross and epaulets, they came from a 
colonel of French cavalry, who had fallen under the aide-de- 
camp's arm in the battle ; and Rawdon Crawley did not know 
what better to do with the spoils than to send them to his 
kindest and most affectionate old friend. Should he continue 
to write to her from Paris, whither the army was marching ? 
He might be able to give her interesting news from that 
capital, and of some of Miss Crawley's old friends of the emi- 
gration, to whom she had shown so much kindness during 
their distress. 

The spinster caused Briggs to write back to the colonel 
a gracious and complimentary letter, encouraging him to 
continue his correspondence. His first letter was so exces- 
sively lively and amusing that she should look with pleasure 
for its successors. " Of course, I know," she explained to 
Miss Briggs, " that Rawdon could not write such a good 
letter any more than you could, my poor Briggs, and that it 
is that clever little wretch of a Rebecca, who dictates every 
word to him ; but that is no reason why my nephew should 
not amuse me ; and so I wish to let him understand that I 
am in high good-humor." 

I wonder whether she knew that it was not only Becky who 
wrote the letters, but that Mrs. Rawdon actually took and 
sent home the trophies — which she bought for a few francs, 
from one of the innumerable peddlers who immediately began 
to deal in relics of the war. The novelist, who knows every- 
thing, knows this also. Be this, however, as it may, Miss 
Crawley's gracious reply greatly encouraged our young 
friends, Rawdon and his lady, who hoped for the best from 
their aunt's evidently pacified humor ; and they took care 
to entertain her with many delightful letters from Paris, 
whither, as Rawdon said, they had the good luck to go in 
the track of the conquering army. 

To the rector's lady, who went off to tend her husband's 
broken collar-bone at the Rectory at Queen's Crawley, the 



362 VANITY FAIR. 

;spinster's communications were by no means so gracious. 
Mrs. Bute, that brisk, managing, lively, imperious woman, 
had committed the most fatal of all errors with regard to her 
;sister-in-law. She had not merely oppressed her and her 
ihousehold — she had bored Miss Crawley ; and if poor Miss 
Briggs had been a woman of any spirit, she might have been 
made happy by the commission which her principal gave her 
to write a letter to Mrs. Bute Crawley, saying that Miss Craw- 
ley's health was greatly improved since Mrs. Bute had left 
her,, and begging the latter on no account to put herself to 
trouble or quit her family for Miss Crawley's sake. This 
triumph over a lady who had been very haughty and cruel 
in her behavior to Miss Briggs would have rejoiced most 
women ; but the truth is, Briggs was a woman of no spirit at 
all, and the moment her enemy was discomfited, she began to 
feel compassion in her favor. 

" How silly I was," Mrs. Bute thought, and with reason, 
" ever to hint that I was coming, as I did, in that foolish 
letter when we sent Miss Crawley the guinea-fowls. I ought 
to have gone without a word to the poor, dear, doting old 
creature, and taken her out of the hands of that ninny Briggs, 
and that harpy of a feinme de chambre. Oh ! Bute, Bute, why 
did you break your collar-bone ?" 

Why, indeed ? We have seen how Mrs. Bute, having the 
game in her hands, had really played her cards too well. She 
had ruled over Miss Crawley's household utterly and com- 
pletely, to be utterly and completely routed when a favorable 
opportunity for rebellion came. She and her household, how- 
ever, considered that she had been the victim of horrible 
selfishness and treason, and that her sacrifices in Miss Craw- 
ley's behalf had met with the most savage ingratitude. Raw- 
don's promotion, and the honorable mention made of his 
name in the Gazette^ filled this good Christian lady also with 
alarm. Would his aunt relent toward him now that he was 
a lieutenant-colonel and a C.B.? and would that odious Re- 
becca once more get into favor ? The rector's wife wrote a 
sermon for her husband about the vanity of military glory and 
the prosperity of the wicked, which the worthy parson read 
in his best voice and without understanding one syllable of 
it. He had Pitt Crawley for one of his auditors — Pitt, who 
Iiad come with his two half-sisters to church, which the old 
baronet could now by no means be brought to frequent. 

Since the departure of Becky Sharp, that old wretch had 
given himself up entirely to his bad courses, to the great scan- 
dal of the count^^ and the mute horror of his son. The rib- 



A NXIE TY OF MISS CRA WLE ¥' S RELA TIONS. Z^Z 

bons in Miss Horrocks's cap became more splendid than ever. 
The polite families fled the hall and its owner in terror. 
Sir Pitt went about tippling at his tenants' houses, and drank 
rum-and-water with the farmers at Mudbury and the neigh- 
boring places on market-days. He drove the family coach- 
and-fourto Southampton with Miss Horrocks inside ; and the 
county people expected, every week, as his son did in speech- 
less agony, that his marriage with her would be announced 
in the provincial pa-per. It was indeed a rude burden for 
Mr. Crawley to bear. His eloquence was palsied at the mis- 
sionary meetings, and other religious assemblies in the neigh- 
borhood, where he had been in the habit of presiding, and 
of speaking for hours ; for he felt, when he rose, that the 
audience said, "That is the son of the old reprobate Sir 
Pitt, who is very likely drinking at the public-house at this very 
moment." And once when he was speaking of the benighted 
condition of the King of Timbuctoo, and the number of his 
wives, who were likewise in darkness, some gypsy miscreant 
from the crowd asked, " How many is there at Queen's Craw- 
ley, Young Squaretoes ?" to the surprise of the platform, and 
the ruin of Mr. Pitt's speech. And the two daughters of 
the house of Queen's Crawley w^ould have been allowed to 
run utterly wild (for Sir Pitt swore that no governess should! 
ever enter into his doors again), had not Mr. Crawley, by 
threatening the old gentleman, forced the latter to send them 
to school. 

Meanwhile, as we have said, whatever individual differ- 
ences there might be between them all. Miss Crawley's dear 
nephews and nieces were unanimous in loving her and sending 
her tokens of affection. Thus Mrs. Bute sent guinea-fowls, 
and some remarkably fine cauliflowers, and a pretty purse 
or pincushion worked by her darling girls, who begged to keep 
a little place in the recollection of their dear aunt, while Mr. 
Pitt sent peaches and grapes and venison from the Hall. The 
Southampton coach used to carry these tokens of affection to 
Miss CrawJey at Brighton ; it used sometimes to convey Mr. 
Pitt thither too ; for his differences with Sir Pitt caused Mr. 
Crawley to absent himself a good deal from home now ; and 
besides, he had an attraction at Brighton in the person of the 
Lady Jane Sheepshanks, whose engagement to Mr. Crawley 
has been formerly mentioned in this history. Her ladyship 
and her sisters lived at Brighton with their mamma, the 
Countess Southdown, that strong-minded woman so favorably 
known in the serious world. 

A few words ought to be said regarding her ladyship an7 



364 VANITY FAIR. 

her noble family, who are bound by ties of present and future 
relationship to the house of Crawley. Respecting the chief 
of the Southdown family, Clement William, fourth Earl of 
Southdown, little need be told, except that his lordship came 
into Parliament (as Lord Wolsey) under the auspices of Mr. 
Wilberforce, and for a time was a credit to his political 
sponsor, and decidedly a serious young man. But words 
cannot describe the feelings of his admirable mother, when 
she learned, very shortly after her noble husband's demise, 
that her son was a member of several worldly clubs, had 
lost largely at pl4y at Wattier's and the Cocoa Tree ; that 
he had raised money on post-obits, and encumbered the 
family estate ; that he drove four-in-hand, and patronized 
the ring ; and that he actually had an opera-box, where he 
entertained the most dangerous bachelor company. His 
name was only mentioned with groans in the dowager's 
circle. 

The Lady Emily was her brother's senior by many years ; 
and took considerable rank in the serious world as author of 
some of the delightful tracts before mentioned, and of many 
hymns and spiritual pieces. A mature spinster, and having 
but faint ideas of marriage, her love for the blacks occupied 
almost all her feelings. It is to her, I believe, we owe that 
beautiful poem : 

" Lead us to some sunny isle, 
Yonder in the western deep ; 
Where the skies forever smile, 

And the blacks forever weep," etc. 

She had correspondences with clerical gentlemen in most of 
our East and West India possessions ; and was secretly attached 
to the Reverend Silas Hornblower, who was tattooed in the 
South Sea Islands. 

As for the Lady Jane, on whom, as it has been said, Mr. 
Pitt Crawley's affection had been placed, she was gentle, 
blushing, silent, and timid. In spite of his falling away, she 
wept for her brother, and was quite ashamed of loving him 
still. Even yet she used to send him little hurried smuggled 
notes, and pop them into the post in private. The one 
dreadful secret which weighed upon her life was, that she 
and the old housekeeper had been to pay Southdown a furtive 
visit at his chambers in the Albany, and found him — oh, the 
naughty, dear, abandoned wretch ! — smoking a cigar, with a 
bottle of Curagoa before him. She admired her sister, she 
adored her mother, she thought Mr. Crawley the most delight- 



ANXIE TY OF MISS CRA WLE V S RELA TIONS 3^5 

ful and accomplished of men, after Southdown, that fallen 
angel ; and her mamma and sister, who were ladies of the 
most superior sort, managed everything or her, and regarded 
her with that amiable pity of which your really superior 
woman always has such a share to give away. Her mamma 
ordered her dresses, her books, her bonnets, and her ideas for 
her. She was made to take pony-riding, or piano exercise, or 
any other sort of bodily medicament, according as my Lady 
Southdown saw meet ; and her ladyship would have kept her 
daughter in pinafores up to her present age of six-and-twenty, 
but that they were thrown off when Lady Jane was presented 
to Queen Charlotte. 

(When these ladies first came to their house at Brighton, it 
was to them alone that Mr. Crawley paid his personal visits, 
contenting himself by leaving a card at his aunt's house, and 
making a modest inquiry of Mr. Bowls or his assistant foot- 
man, with respect to the health of the invalid. When he met 
Miss Briggs coming home from the library with a cargo of 
novels under her arm, Mr. Crawley blushed in a manner quite 
unusual to him as he stepped forward and shook Miss Craw- 
ley's companion by the hand. He introduced Miss Briggs to 
the lady with whom he happened to be walking, the Lady 
Jane Sheepshanks, saying, "Lady Jane, permit me to intro- 
duce to you my aunt's kindest friend and most affectionate 
companion. Miss Briggs, whom you know under another title, 
as authoress of the delightful ' Lyrics of the Heart,' of which 
you are so fond." Lady Jane blushed too as she held out a 
kind little hand to Miss Briggs, and said something very 
civil and incoherent about mamma, and proposing to call on 
Miss Crawley, and being glad to be made known to the friends 
and relatives of Mr. Crawley ; and with soft, dove-like eyes 
saluted Miss Briggs as they separated, while Pitt Crawley 
treated her to a profound courtly bow, such as he had used 
to H.H. the Duchess of Pumpernickel, when he was attache 
at that court. 

The artful diplomatist and disciple of the Machiavellian 
Binkie ! It was he who had given Lady Jane that copy of 
poor Briggs' s early poems, which he remembered to have seen 
at Queen's Crawley, with a dedication from the poetess to 
his father's late wife ; and he brougnt the volume with him 
to Brighton, reading it in the Southampton coach and mark- 
ing it with his own pencil, before he presented it to the gentle 
Lady Jane. 

It was he, too, who laid before Lady Southdown the great 
advantages which might occur from an intimacy between her 



366 



VANITY FAIR, 



family and Miss Crawley— advantages both worldly and spirit- 
ual, he said, for Miss Crawley was now quite alone ; the 
monstrous dissipation and alliance of his brother Rawdon 
had estranged her affections from that reprobate young man ; 




The greedy tyranny and avarice of Mrs. Bute Crawley had 
caused the old lady to revolt against the exorbitant preten- 
sions of that part of the family ; and though he himself had 
held off all his life from cultivating Miss Crawley's friendship, 
with perhaps an improper pride, he thought now that every 
becoming means should be taken, both to save her soul from 



ANXIE TY OF MISS CRA WLE Y' S RELA TIONS. 3^7 

perdition and to secure her fortune to himself as the head of 
the house of Crawley. 

The strong-minded Lady Southdown quite agreed in both 
proposals of her son-in-law, and was for converting Miss 
Crawley off hand. At her own home, both at Southdown 
and at Trottermore Castle, this tall and awful missionary of 
the truth rode about the country in her barouche with out- 
riders, launched packets of tracts among the cottagers and 
tenants, and would order Gaffer Jones to be converted, as 
she would order Goody Hicks to take a James's powder, 
without appeal, resistance, or benefit of clergy. My Lord 
Southdown, her late husband, an epileptic and simple-minded 
nobleman, was in the habit of approving of everything which 
his Matilda did and thought. So that whatever changes her 
own belief might undergo (and it accommodated itself to a 
prodigious variety of opinion, taken from all sorts of doctors 
among the Dissenters) she had not the least scruple in order- 
ing all her tenants and inferiors to follow and believe after 
her. Thus, whether she received the Reverend Saunders 
McNitre, the Scotch divine ; or the Reverend Luke Waters, 
the mild Wesleyan ; or the Reverend Giles Jowls, the illu- 
minated cobbler, who dubbed himself Reverend as Napoleon 
crowned himself Emperor — the household, children, tenantry 
of my Lady Southdown were expected to go down on their 
knees with her ladyship, and say Amen to the prayers of 
either doctor. During these exercises old Southdown, on 
account of his invalid condition, was allowed to sit in his 
own room, and have negus and the paper read to him. Lady 
Jane was the old earl's favorite daughter, and tended him 
and loved him sincerely ; as for Lady Emily, the authoress of 
the *' Washerwoman of Finchley Common," her denuncia- 
tions of future punishment (at this period, for her opinions 
modified afterward (were so awful that they used to frighten 
the timid old gentleman her father, and the physicians de- 
clared his fits always occurred after one of her ladyship's 
sermons." 

I will certainly call," said Lady Southdown then, in reply 
to the exhortation of her daughter's pretendu, Mr. Pitt Craw- 
ley. " Who is Miss Crawley's medical man ?" 

Mr. Crawley mentioned the name of Mr. Creamer. 

" A most dangerous and ignorant practitioner, my dear 
Pitt. I have providentially been the means of removing him 
from several houses ; though in one or two instances I did 
not arrive in time. I could not save poor dear General 
Glanders, who was dying under the hands of that ignorant 



368 VANITY FAIR. 

man — aying. He rallied a little under the Podgers's pills 
which I administered to him ; but alas ! it was too late. His 
death was delightful, however ; and his change was only for 
the better. Creamer, my dear Pitt, must leave your aunt." 

Pitt expressed his perfect acquiescence. He, too, had been 
carried along by the energy of his noble kinswoman, and fu- 
ture mother-in-law. He had been made to accept Saunders 
McNitre, \Luke Waters, Giles Jowls, Podgers's Pills, Pokey's 
Elixir, every one of her ladyship's remedies, spiritual or tem- 
poral. He never left her house without carrying respectfully 
away with him piles of her quack theology and medicine. Oh, 
my dear brethren and fellow-sojourners in Vanity Fair, v/hich 
among you does not know and suffer under such benevolent 
despots? It is in vain you say to them, "Dear madam, I 
took Podgers's specific at your orders last year, and believe 
in it. Why, why am I to recant and accept the Rodgers' 
articles now?" There is no help for it ; the faithful prose- 
lytizer, if she cannot convince by argument, bursts into tears^ 
and the recusant .finds himself, at the end of the contest, 
taking down the bolus, and saying, " Well, well, Rodgers 
be it." 

" And as for her spiritual state," continued the lady, *' that, 
of course, must be looked to immediately ; with Creamer 
about her, she may go off any day ; and in what a condition^ 
my dear Pitt, in what a dreadful condition ! I will send the 
Reverend Mr. Irons to her instantly. Jane, write a line to 
the Reverend Bartholomew Irons, in the third person, and 
say that I desire the pleasure of his company this evening at 
tea at half-past six. He is an awakening man ; he ought to 
see Miss Crawley before she rests this night. And Emily, my 
love, get ready a packet of books for Miss Crawley. Put up 
' A Voice from the Flames,' ' A Trumpet-warning to Jericho,' 
and jthe ' Fleshpots Broken ; or, the Converted Cannibal.' " 

" And the ' Washerwoman of Finchley Common,' mamma," 
said Lady Emily. "It is as well to begin soothingly at 
first." 

" Stop, my dear ladies," said Pitt, the diplomatist. " With 
every deference to the opinion of my beloved and respected 
Lady Southdown, I think it would be quite unadvisable to 
commence so early upon serious topics with Miss Crawley. 
Remember her delicate condition, and how little, how very 
little accustomed she has hitherto been to considerations con- 
nected with her immortal welfare." 

" Can we, then, begin too early, Pitt?" said Lady Emily,, 
rising with six little books already in her hand. 



A NX IE TV OF MISS CRA WLE V 'S RE LA TIONS. 369 

** If you begin abruptly you will frighten her altogether. I 
know my aunt's worldly nature so well as to be sure that any 
abrupt attempt at conversion will be the very worst means that can 
be employed for the welfare of that unfortunate lady. You will 
only frighten and annoy her. She will very likely fling the books 
away, and refuse all acquaintance with the givers." 

" You are as worldly as Miss Crawley, Pitt," said Lady Emily, 
tossing out of the room, her books in her hand. 

" And I need not tell you, my dear Lady Southdown," Pitt con- 
tinued, in a low voice, and without heeding the interruption, " hew 
fatal a little want of gentleness and caution may be to any hopes 
which we may entertain with regard to the worldly possessions of 
my aunt. Remember, she has seventy thousand pounds ; think of 
her age, and her highly nervous and delicate condition ; I know 
that she has destroyed the will which was made in my brother's 
(Colonel Crawley's) favor ; it is by soothing that wounded spirit 
that we must lead it into the right path, and not by frightening it ; 
and so I think you will agree with me that — that — " 

" Of course, of course," Lady Southdown remarked. "Jane, 
my love, you need not send that note to Mr, Irons. If her health 
is such that discussions fatigue her, we will wait her amendment. 
I will call upon Miss Crawley to-morrow." 

" And if I might suggest, my sweet lady," Pitt said, in a bland 
tone, " it would be as well not to take our precious Emily, who is 
too enthusiastic ; but rather that you should be accompanied by 
our sweet and dear Lady Jane." 

" Most certainly, Emily would ruin everything," Lady Southdown 
said, and this time agreed to forego her usual practice, which was, 
as we have said, before she bore down personally upon any indi- 
vidual whom she proposed to subjugate, to fire in a quantity of 
tracts upon the menaced party (as a charge of the French was 
always preceded by a furious cannonade). Lady Southdown, we 
say, for the sake of the invalid's health, or for the sake of her 
soul's ultimate welfare, or for the sake of her money, agreed to 
temporize. 

The next day, the great Southdown female family carriage, with 
the earl's coronet and the lozenge (upon which the three lambs 
trottant argent upon the field vert of the Southdowns, were quar- 
tered with sable on a bend or, three snuff-mules gules, the cogni- 
zance of the house of Binkie), drove up in state to Miss Crawley's 
door, and the tall serious footman handed in to Mr. Bowls her 
ladyship's cards for Miss Crawley, and one likewise for Miss 
Briggs. By way of compromise, Lady Emily sent in a packet in 
the evening for the latter lady, containing copies of the " Washer- 
woman," and other mild and favorite tracts for Miss B.'s own 
24 



370 



VANITY FAIR, 



perusal, and a few for the servants' hall, viz., " Crumbs from the 
Pantry," " The Frying Pan and the Fire," and " The Livery of 
Sin," of a much stronger kind. 



CHAPTER XXXIV. 




less companion 
a card upon you, 



JAMES Crawley's pipe is put out. 

HE amiable behavior of Mr, 
Crawley, and Lady Jane's 
kind reception of her, highly 
flattered Miss Briggs, who 
was enabled to speak a good 
word for the latter, after the 
cards of the Southdown fam- 
ily had been presented to 
Miss Crawley. A countess's 
card left personally too for 
her, Briggs, was not a little 
pleasing to the poor friend- 
" What could Lady Southdown mean by leaving 
I wonder. Miss Briggs ? " said the republican 
Miss Crawley ; upon which the companion meekly said " that she 
hoped there could be no harm in a lady of rank taking notice of a 
poor gentlewoman," and she put away this card in her work-box 
among her most cherished personal treasures. Furthermore, Miss 
Briggs explained how she had met Mr. Crawley walking with his 
cousin and long-affianced bride the day before ; and she told how 
kind and gentle-looking the lady was, and what a plain, not to say 
common, dress she had, all the articles of which, from the bonnet 
down to the boots, she described and estimated with female accu- 
racy. 

Miss Crawley allowed Briggs to prattle on without interrupting 
her too much. As she got well, she was pining for society. Mr. 
Creamer, her medical man, would not hear of her returning 
to her old haunts and dissipations in London. ^ The old 
spinster was too glad to find any companionship at Brighton, and 
not only were the cards acknowledged the very next day, but Pitt 
Crawley was graciously invited to come and see his aunt. He 
came, bringing with him Lady Southdown and her daughter. The 
dowager did not say a word about the state of Miss Crawley's soul, 
but talked with much discretion about the weather, about the war 
and the downfall of the monster Bonaparte, and above all, about 



JAMES CRA WLEY'S PIPE IS PUT OUT, 371 

doctors, quacks, and the particular meritc of Dr. Podgers, whom 
she then patronized. 

During their interview Pitt Crawley made a great stroke, and 
one which showed that, had his diplomatic career not been 
blighted by early neglect, he might have risen to a high rank in 
his profession. When the Countess Dowager of Southdown fell 
foul of the Corsican upstart, as the fashion v»^as in those days, and 
showed that he was a monster stained with every conceivable 
crime, a coward and a tyrant not fit to lives one whose fall was 
predicted, etc., Pitt Crawley suddenly took up the cudgels in favor 
of the Man of Destiny. He described the First Consul as he saw 
him at Paris at the peace of Amiens, when he, Pitt Crawley, had 
the gratification of making the acquaintance of the great and good 
Mr. Fox, a statesman, whom, however much ho might differ with 
him, it was impossible not to admire fervently — a statesman who 
had always had the highest opinion of the Emperor Napoleon. 
And he spoke in terms of the strongest indignation of the faithless 
conduct of the allies toward this dethroned monarch, who, after 
giving himself generously up to their mercy, was consigned to an 
ignoble and cruel banishments while a bigoted Popish rabble was 
tyrannizing over France in his stead. 

This orthodox horror of Romish superstition saved Pitt Crawley 
in Lady Southdown's opinion, while his admiration for Fox and 
Napoleon raised him immeasurably in Miss Crawley's eyes. Her 
friendship with that defunct British statesman was mentioned 
when we first introduced her in this history. A true Whig, Miss 
Crawley had been in opposition all through the war, and though, 
to be sure, the downfall of the emperor did not very much agitate 
the old lady, or his ill-treatment tend to shorten her life or natural 
rest, yet Pitt spoke to her heart when he lauded both her idols ; 
and by that single speech made immense progress in her favor. 

" And what do you think, my dear ? " Miss Crawley said to 
the young lady, for whom she had taken a liking at first sight, as 
she always did for pretty and modest young people ; though it 
must be owned her affections cooled as rapidly as they rose. 

Lady Jane blushed very much, and said " that she did not 
understand politics, which she left to wiser heads than hers ; but 
though mamma was, no doubt, correct, Mr. Crawley had spoken 
beautifully," And when the ladies were retiring at the conclusion 
of their visit. Miss Crawley hoped " Lady Southdown would be so 
kind as to send her Lady Jane sometimes, if she could be spared 
to come down and comsole a poor, sick, lonely old woman." This 
promise was graciously accorded, and they separated upon great 
terms of amity. 

" Don't let Lady Southdown come again, Pitt," said the old 



372 VANITY FAIR. 

lady. " She is stupid and pompous, like all your mother's family, 
whom I never could endure. But bring that nice good-natured 
little Jane as often as ever you please." Pitt promised that he 
would do so. He did not tell the Countess of Southdown what 
opinion his aunt had formed of her ladyship, who, on the contrary, 
thought that she had made a most delightful and majestic impres- 
sion on Miss Crawley. 

And so, nothing loath to comfort a sick lady, and perhaps not 
sorry in her heart to be freed now and again from the dreary 
spouting of the Reverend Bartholomew Irons, and the serious 
toadies who gathered round the footstool of the pompous countess, 
her mamma, Lady Jane, became a pretty constant visitor to Miss 
Crawley, accompanied her in her drives, and solaced many of her 
evenings. She was so naturally good and soft, that even Firkin 
was not jealous of her ; and the gentle Briggs thought her friend 
was less cruel to her when kind Lady Jane was by. Toward her 
ladyship Miss Crawley's manners were charming. The old spin- 
ster told her a thousand anecdotes about her youth, talking to her 
in a very different strain from that in which she had been accus- 
tomed to converse with the godless little Rebecca ; for there was 
that in Lady Jane's innocence which rendered light talking imper- 
tinence before her, and Miss Crawley was too much of a gentle- 
woman to offend such purity. The young lady herself had never 
received kindness except from this old spinster, and her brother 
and father ; and she repaid Miss Crawley's e7igoument by artless 
sweetness and friendship. 

In the autumn evenings (when Rebecca was flaunting at Paris, 
the gayest among the gay conquerors there, and our Amelia, our 
dear, wounded Amelia, ah ! where was she X) Lady Jane would be 
sitting in Miss Crawley's drawing-room singing sweetly to her, in 
the twilight, her little simple songs and hymns, while the sun was 
setting and the sea was roaring on the beach. The old spinster 
used to wake up when these ditties ceased, and ask for more. As 
for Briggs, and the quantity of tears of happiness which she now 
shed as she pretended to knit, and looked out at the splendid 
ocean darkling before the windows, and the lamps of heaven 
beginning more brightly to shine — who, I say, can measure the 
happiness and sensibility of Briggs ? 

Pitt meanwhile, in the dining-room, with a pamphlet on the Corn 
Laws or a Missionary Register by his side, took that kind of rec- 
reation which suits romantic and unromantic men after dinner. 
He sipped Madeira ; built castles in the air ; thought himself a 
fine fellow ; felt himself much more in love with Jane than he had 
been any time these seven years, during which their liaison had 
lasted without the slightest impatience on Pitt's part— -and slept a 



JAMES CRA WLEY'S PIPE IS PUT OUT. 373 

good deal. When the time for coffee came, Mr. Bowls used to 
enter in a noisy manner, and summon Squire Pitt, who would be 
found in the dark, very busy with his pamphlet. 

" I wish, my love, I could get somebody to play piquet with me," 
Miss Crawley said one night when this functionary made his 
appearance with the candles and the coffee. " Poor Briggs can no 
more play than an owl, she is so stupid " (the spinster always took 
an opportunity of abusing Briggs before the servants) ; " and I 
think I should sleep better if I had my game." 

At this Lady Jane blushed to the tips of her ears and down to 
the ends of her pretty lingers, and when Mr. Bowls had quitted the 
room, and the door was quite shut, she said : 

" Miss Crawley, I can play a little. I used to — to play a little 
with poor dear papa." 

" Come and kiss me. Come and kiss me this instant, you dear 
good little soul," cried Miss Crawley in an ecstasy : and in this 
picturesque and friendly occupation Mr. Pitt found the old lady 
and the young one, when he came up stairs with his pamphlet in 
his hand. How she did blush all the evening, that poor Lady 
Jane ! 

It must not be imagined that Mr. Pitt Crawley's artifices escaped 
the attention of his dear relations at the Rectory at Queen's Craw- 
ley. Hampshire and Sussex lie very close together, and Mrs. Bute 
had friends in the latter county who took care to inform her of all, 
and a great deal more than all, that passed at Miss Crawley's house 
at Brighton. Pitt was there more and more. He had not come 
for months together to the Hall, where. his abominable old father 
abandoned himself completely to rum-and-water, and the odious 
society of the Horrocks family. Pitt's success rendered the rec- 
tor's family furious, and Mrs. Bute regretted more (though she 
confessed less) than ever her monstrous fault in so insulting Miss 
Briggs, and in being so haughty and parsimonious to Bowls and 
Firkin, that she had not a single person left in Miss Crawley's 
household to give her information of what took place there. " It 
was all Bute's collar-bone," she persisted in saying ; " if that had 
not broke, I never would have left her. I am a martyr to dutyjand 
to your odious unclerical habit of hunting, Bute." 

" Hunting ; nonsense ! It was you that frightened her, Barbara," 
the divine interposed. " You're a clever woman, but you've got a 
devil of a temper ; and you're a screw with your money, Barbara." 

"You'd have been screwed in jail, Bute, if I had not kept your 
money." 

" I know I would, my dear," said the rector, good-naturedly. 



374 VAmTY FAIR. 

" You are a clever woman, but you manage too well, you know . " 
and the pious man consoled himself with a big glass of port. 

" What the deuce can she find in that spooney of a Pitt Craw' 
ley ? " he continued. " The fellow has not pluck enough to say Bo 
to a goose. I remember when Rawdon, who is a man, and be 
hanged to him, used to flog him round the stables as if he was a 
whipping-top ; and Pitt would go howling home to his ma — ha, ha ! 
Why, either of my boys would whop him with one hand. Jim 
says he's remembered at Oxford as Miss Crawley still — the 
spooney." 

" I say, Barbara," his reverence continued, after a pause. 

"What?" said Barbara, who was biting her nails, and drum- 
ming the table. 

" I say, why not send Jim over to Brighton to see if he can do 
anything with the old lady. He's very near getting his degree, you 
know. He's only been plucked twice — so was I-^but he's had the 
advantages of Oxford and a university education. He knows some 
of the best chaps there. He pulls stroke in the Boniface boat. 
He's a handsome feller. D — it, ma'am, let's put him on the old 
woman, hev ; and tell him to thrash Pitt if he says anything. Ha, 
ha, ha!" ' 

"Jim might go down and see her, certainly," the housewife said ; 
adding with a sigh, " If we could but get one of the girls into the 
house — but she could never endure them because they are not 
pretty ! " Those unfortunate and well-educated women made 
themselves heard from the neighboring drawing-room, where they 
were thrumming away, with hard fingers, an elaborate music-piece 
on the piano-forte, as their mother spoke ; and indeed, they were at 
music, or at backboard, or at geography, or at history, the whole 
day long. But what avail all these accomplishments, in Vanity 
Fair, to girls who are short, poor, plain, and have a bad complex- 
ion ? Mrs. Bute could think of nobody but the curate to take one 
of them off her hands ; and Jim coming in from the stable at this 
minute, through the parlor window, with a short pipe stuck in his 
oil-skin cap, he and his father fell to talking about odds on the St. 
Leger, and the colloquy between the rector and his wife ended. 

Mrs. Bute did not augur much good to the cause from the send- 
ing*of her son James as an ambassador, and saw him depart in 
rather a despairing mood. Nor did the young fellow himself, 
when told what his mission was to be, expect much pleasure or 
benefit from it : but he was consoled by the thought that possibly 
the old lady would give him some handsome remembrance of her, 
which would pay a few of his most pressing bills at the commence- 
ment of the ensuing Oxford term, and so took his place by the 
coach from Southampton, and was safely landed at Brighton on the 



JAMES CRA WLEY'S PIPE IS PUT OUT. 375; 

same evening, with his portmanteau, his favorite bull-dog, Towzer, 
and an immense basket of farm and garden produce, from the 
dear Rectory folks to the dear Miss Crawley. Considering it was 
too late to disturb the invalid lady on the first night of his arrival, 
he put up at an inn, and did not wait upon Miss Crawley until a 
late hour in the noon of next day. 

James Crawley, when his aunt had last beheld him, was a gawky 
lad, at that uncomfortable age when the voice varies between an 
unearthly treble and a preternatural bass ; when the face not 
uncommonly blooms out with appearances for which Rowland's 
Kalydor is said to act as a cure ; when boys are seen to shave 
furtively with their sister's scissors, and the sight of other young 
women produces intolerable sensations of terror in them ; when 
the great hands and ankles protrude a long way from garments 
which have grown too tight for them ; when their presence after 
dinner is at once frightful to the ladies,, who are whispering in the 
twilight in the drawing-room, and inexpressibly odious to the gen- 
tlemen over the mahogany, who was restrained from freedom of 
intercourse and delightful interchange of wit by the presence of 
that gawky innocence ; when, at the conclusion of the second 
glass, papa says, " Jack, my boy, go out and see if the evening 
holds up," and the youth, willing to be free, yet hurt at not being, 
yet a man, quits the incomplete banquet. James, then a hobblede- 
hoy, was now become a young man, having had the benefits of a 
university education, and acquired the inestimable polish which is 
gained by living in a fast set at a small college, and contracting^ 
debts, and being rusticated, and being plucked. 

He was a handsome lad, however, when he came to present him- 
self to his aunt at Brighton, and good looks were always a title to 
the fickle old lady's favor. Nor did his blushes and awkwardness 
take away from it; she was pleased with these healthy tokens of 
the young gentleman's ingenuousness. 

He said " he had come down for a couple of days to see a man 
of his college, and — and to pay my respects to you, ma'ma, and my 
father's and mother's, who hope you are well," 

Pitt was in the room with Miss Crawley when the lad was an- 
nounced, and looked very blank when his name was mentioned. 
The old lady had plenty of humor, and enjoyed her correct nephew's 
perplexity. She asked after all the people at the Rectory with 
great interest, and said she was thinking of paying them a visit. 
She praised the lad to his face, and said he was well-grown and 
very much improved, and that it was a pity his sisters had not 
some of his good looks ; and finding, on inquiry, that he had taken 
up his quarters at a hotel, would not hear of his stopping there, but 
bade Mr. Bowls send for Mr. James Crawley s things instantly \ 



376 VANITY FAIR. 

" and hark ye, Bowls," she added, with great graciousness, " you 
will have the goodness to pay Mr. James's bill." 

She flung Pitt a look of arch triumph, which caused that diplo- 
matist almost to choke with envy. Much as he had ingratiated 
himself with his aunt, she had never yet invited him to stay under 
her roof, and here was a young whipper-snapper, who at first sight 
was made welcome there. 

" I beg your pardon, sir," says Bowls, advancing with a pro- 
found bow ; " what 'otel, sir, shall Thomas fetch the luggage 
from ? » 

" O dam," said young James, starting up as if in some alarm, 
« I'll go I » 

*< What I " said Miss Crawley. 

" The Tom Cribb's Arms," said James, blushing deeply. 

Miss Crawley burst out laughing at this title. Mr. Bowls gave 
one abrupt guffaw, as a confidential servant of the family, but 
choked the rest of the volley , the diplomatist only smiled. 

" I— I didn't know any better,'' said James, looking down. ** I've 
never been here before : it was the coachman told me." The 
young story-teller ! The fact is, that on the Southampton coach, 
the day previous, James Crawley had met the Tutbury Pet, who 
was coming to Brighton to make a match with the Rottingdean 
Fibber ; and enchanted by the Pet's conversation, had passed the 
evening in company with ihat scientific man and his friends, at the 
inn in question. 

" I — I'd best %o and settle the score," James continued. 
" Couldn't think of asking yoU; ma'ma/' he added generously. 

This delicacy made his aunt laugh the more. 

" Go and settle the bill. Bowls," she said, with a wave of her 
hand, " and bring it to me." 

Poor lady, she did not know what she had done ! " There — 
there's a little da7vg" said James, looking frightfully guilty. " I'd 
best go for him. He bites footmen's calves." 

All the party cried out with laughing at this description ; even 
Briggs and Lady Jane, who was sitting mute during the interview 
between Miss Crawley and her nephew; and Bowls, without a 
word, quitted the room. 

Still, by way of punishing her elder nephew. Miss Crawley per- 
sisted in being gracious to the young Oxonian. There were no 
limits to her kindness or her compliments when they once began. 
She told Pitt he might come to dinner, and insisted that James 
should accompany her in her drive, and paraded him solemnly up 
and down the cliff, on the back seat of the barouche. During all 
this excursion, she condescended to say civil things to him ; she 
quoted Italian and French poetry to the poor bewildered lad, and 



JAMES CRAWLEY'S PIPE IS PUT OUT, 2,77 

persisted that he was a fine scholar, and was perfectly sure he 
would gain a gold medal, and be a Senior Wrangler. 

" Haw, haw," laughed James, encouraged by these compliments j 
" Senior Wrangler, indeed ; that's at the other shop." 

" What is the other shop, my dear child ? " said the lady. 

" Senior Wranglers at Cambridge, not Oxford," said the 
scholar, with a knowing air ; and would probably have been more 
confidential, but that suddenly there appeared on the cliff in a tax- 
cart, drawn by a bang-up pony, dressed in white flannel coats, with 
mother-of-pearl buttons, his friends the Tutbury Pet and the Rot- 
tingdean Fibber, with three other gentlemen of their acquaintance, 
who all saluted poor James there in the carriage as he sat. This 
incident dampened the ingenuous youth's spirits, and no word of 
yea or nay could he be induced to utter during the rest of the 
drive. 

On his return he found his room prepared, and his portmanteau 
ready, and might have remarked that Mr. Bowls's countenance, 
when the latter conducted him to his apartments, wore a look of 
gravity, wonder, and compassion. But the thought of Mr. Bowls 
did not enter his head. He was deploring the dreadful predica- 
ment in which he found himself, in a house full of old women, 
jabbering French and Italian, and talking poetry to him. " Reg- 
larly up a tree, by jingo ! " exclaimed the modest boy, who could 
not face the gentlest of her sex — not even Briggs — when she be- 
gan to talk to him ; whereas, put him at Iffley Lock, and he could 
out-slang the boldest bargeman. 

At dinner, James appeared choking in a white neckcloth, and 
had the honor of handing my Lady Jane down stairs, while Briggs 
and Mr. Crawley followed afterward, conducting the old lady, with 
her apparatus of bundles and shawls, and cushions^ Half of 
Briggs's time at dinner was spent in superintending the invalid's 
comfort, and in cutting up chicken for her fat spaniel. James did 
not talk much, but he made a point of asking all the ladies to 
drink wine, and accepted Mr. Crawley's challenge, and consumed 
the greater part of a bottle of champagne which Mr. Bowls was 
ordered to produce in his honor. The ladies having withdrawn 
and the two cousins being left together, Pitt, the ex-diplomatist, 
became very communicative and friendly. He asked after James's 
career at college — what his prospects in life were — hoped heartily 
he would get on ; and, in a word, was frank and amiable. James's 
tongue unloosed with the port, and he told his cousin his life, his 
prospects, his debts, his troubles at the little-go, and his rows with 
the proctors, filling rapidly from the bottles before him, and flying 
from Port to Madeira with joyous activity. 

" The chief pleasure which my aunt has," said Mr. Crawley, 



:378 VANITY FAIR. 

filling his glass, " is that people should do as they like in her 
house. This is Liberty Hall, James, and you can't do Miss Craw- 
ley a greater kindness than to do as you please, and ask for what 
you will. I know you have all sneered at me in the country for 
^being a Tory. Miss Crawley is liberal enough to suit any fancy. 
She is a republican in principle, and despises everything like rank 
or title." 

" Why are you going to marry an earl's daughter ? " said James. 

" My dear friend, remember it is not poor Lady Jane's fault that 
she is well born," Pitt replied, with a courtly air. " She can not 
help being a lady. Besides, I am a Tory, you know." 

" Oh, as for that," said Jim, " there's nothing like old blood ; no, 
dammy, nothing like it. I'm none of your radicals. I know what 
it is to be a gentleman, damme. See the chaps in a boat-race ; 
look at the fellers in a fight ; ay, look at a dawg killing rats — - 
which is it wins ? the good-blooded ones. Get some more port, 
Bowls, old boy, while I buzz this bottle here. What was I 
a-saying ? " 

" I think you were speaking of dogs killing rats," Pitt remarked 
mildly, handing his cousin the decanter to " buzz." 

" Killing rats, was 1 1 Well, Pitt, are you a sporting man ? Do 
you want to see a dawg as can kill a rat ? If you do, come down 
with me to Tom Corduroy's, in Castle Street Mews, and I'll show 
you such a bull-terrier as — Pooh ! gammon," cried James, burst- 
ing out laughing at his own absurdity — ^'- you don't care about a 
dawg or rat ; it's all nonsense. I'm blest if I think you know the 
difference between a dawg and a duck." • 

" No ; by the way," Pitt continued, with increased blandness, 
" it was about blood you were talking, and the personal advan- 
tages which people derive from patrician birth. Here's the fresh 
bottle." 

" Blood's the word," said James, gulping the ruby fluid down. 
" Nothing like blood, sir, in horses, dawgs, and men. Why, only 
last term, just before I was rusticated, that is, I mean just before 
I had the measles, ha, ha — there was me and Ringwood of Christ- 
church, Bob Ringwood, Lord Cinqbars's son, having our beer at the 
Bell at Blenheim, when the Banbury bargeman offered to fight 
either of us for a bowl of punch. I couldn't. My arm was in a 
sling; couldn't even take the drag down — a brute of a mare of 
mine had fell with me only two days before, out with the Abing- 
don, and I thought my arm was broke. Well, sir, I couldn't finish 
him, but Bob had his coat off at once — he stood up to the Ban- 
bury man for three minutes, and polished him off in four rounds 
'easy. Gad, how he did drop, sir, and what was it ? Blood, sir, all 
•blood." 



JAMES CRA WLEY'S PIPE IS PUT OUT. 379 

" You don't drink, James," the ex-attache continued. " In my 
time at Oxford the men passed round the bottle a little quicker 
than you young fellows seem to do." 

" Come, come," said James, putting his hand to his nose, and 
winking at his cousin witJi a pair of vinous eyes, " no jokes, old boy ; 
no trying it on on me. You want to trot me out, but it's no go. In 
vino Veritas., old boy. Mars, Bacchus, Apollo virorum^ hay ? I 
wish my aunt would send down some of this to the governor ; it's 
a precious good tap." 

" You had better ask her," Machiavel continued, " or make the 
best of your time now. What says the bard ? ^ Nunc vino pellite 
curas, Cras ingens iterabimiis cequor^^ " and the Bacchanalian, quot- 
ing the above with a House of Commons air, tossed off nearly a 
thimbleful of wine with an immense flourish of his glass. 

At the rectory, when the bottle of port wine was opened after 
dinner, the young ladies had each a glass from a bottle of currant 
wine, Mrs. Bute took one glass of port, honest James had a couple 
commonly, but as his father grew very sulky if he made further in- 
roads on the bottle, the good lad generally refrained from trying 
for more, and subsided either into the currant wine, or to some 
private gin-and-water in the stables, which he enjoyed in the com- 
pany of the coachman and his pipe. At Oxford the quantity of 
wine was unlimited, but the quality was inferior ; but when quan- 
tity and quality united, as at his aunt's house, James showed that 
he could appreciate them indeed, and hardly needed any of his 
cousin's encouragement in draining off the second bottle supplied 
by Mr. Bowls. 

When the time for coffee came, however, and for a return to the 
ladies, of whom he stood in awe, the young gentleman's agreeable 
frankness left him, and he relapsed into his usual surly timidity, 
contenting himself by saying yes and no, by scowling at Lady 
Jane, and by upsetting one cup of coffee during the evening. 

If he did not speak, he yawned in a pitiable manner, and his 
presence threw a damp upon the modest proceedings of the even- 
ing, for Miss Crawley and Lady Jane at their piquet, and Miss 
Briggs at her work, felt that his eyes were wildly fixed on them, 
and were uneasy under that maudlin look. 

" He seems a very silent, awkward, bashful lad," said Miss Craw- 
ley to Mr. Pitt. 

" He is more communicative in men's society than with ladies," 
Machiavel dryly replied ; perhaps rather disappointed that the port 
wine had not made Jim speak more. 

He had spent the early part of the next morning in writing 
liome to his mother a most flourishing account of his reception by 
Miss Crawley. But ah! he little knew what evils the day was 



38o VANITY FAIR. 

bringing for him, and how short his reign of favor was destined to 
be. A circumstance which Jim had forgotten — a trivial but fatal 
circumstance — had taken place at the Cribb's Arms on the night 
before he had come t€ ais aunt's house. It was no other than 
this — Jim, who was always of a generous disposition, and when in 
his cups especially hospitable, and in the course of the night 
treated the Tutbury champion and the Rottingdean man, and their 
friends, twice or thrice to the refreshment of gin-and-water — so 
that no less than eighteen glasses of that fluid at eightpence per 
glass were charged in Mr. James Crawley's bill. It was not the 
amount of eightpences, but the quantity of gin, which told fatally 
against poor James's character, when his aunt's butler, Mr. Bowls, 
went down at his mistress's request, to pay the young gentleman's 
bill. The landlord, fearing lest the account should be refused al- 
together, swore solemnly that the young gent had consumed per- 
sonally every farthing's worth of the liquor ; and Bowls paid the 
bill finally, and showed it on his return home to Mrs. Firkin, who 
was shocked at the frightful prodigality of gin ; and took the bill 
to Miss Briggs as accountant-general ; who thought it her duty to 
mention the circumstance to her principal. Miss Crawley. 

Had he drank a dozen bottles of claret, the old spinster could 
have pardoned him. Mr. Fox and Mr. Sheridan drank claret. 
Gentlemen drank claret. But eighteen glasses of gin consumed 
among boxers in an ignoble pot-house — it was an odious crime 
and not to be. pardoned readily. Everything went against the lad ; 
he came home perfumed from the stables, whither he had been to 
pay his dog Towzer a visit — and whence he was going to take his 
friend out for an airing, when he met Miss Crawley and her 
wheezy Blenheim spaniel, which Towzer would have eaten up had 
not the Blenheim fled squealing to the protection of Miss Briggs, 
while the atrocious master of the bulldog stood laughing at the 
horrible persecution. 

This day, too, the unlucky boy's modesty had likewise forsaken 
him. He was lively and facetious at dinner. During the repast 
he leveled one or two jokes against Pitt Crawley; he drank as 
much wine as upon the previous day; and going quite unsuspi- 
ciously to the drawing-room, began to entertain the ladies there 
with some choice Oxford stories. He described the different 
pugilistic qualities of Molyneux and Dutch Sam, offered playfully 
to give Lady Jane the odds upon the Tutbury Pet against the Rot- 
tingdean man, or' take them, as her ladyship chose ; and crowned 
the pleasantry by proposing to back himself against his cousin 
Pitt Crawley, either with or without the gloves. " And that's a 
fair offer, my buck," he said, with a loud laugh, slapping Pitt on 
the shoulder, " and my father told me to make it, too, and he'll go 



3S2 



JAMES CRAWLEY'S PIPE IS PUT OUT, 



halves in the bet, ha, ha ! " so saying, the engaging youth nodded 
knowingly at poor Miss Briggs, and pointed his thumb over his 
shoulder at Pitt Crawley in a jocular and exulting manner. 
_ Pitt was not pleased altogether, perhaps, but still not unhappy 
in the main; Poor Jim had his laugh out, and staggered across 
the room with his aunt's candle, when the old lady moved to retire, 




and offered to salute her with the blandest tipsy smile; and he 
took his own leave and went up stairs to his bed-room perfectly 
satisfied with himself, and with a pleased notion that his aunt's 
money would be left to him in preference to his father and all the 
rest of the family. 

Once up in the bed-room, one would have thought he could not 
make matters worse ; and yet this unlucky boy did. The moon 
was shining very pleasantly out on the sea, and Jim, attracted to the 




Mus. Osborne's Carriage stopping the Way. 



JAMES CRA WLEY'S PIPE IS PUT OUT, 383 

window by the romantic appearance of the ocean and the heavens, 
thought he would further enjoy them while smoking. Nobody 
would smell the tobacco, he thought, if he cunningly opened the 
window and kept his head and pipe in the fresh air. This he did ; 
but being in an excited state, poor Jim had forgotten that his door 
was open all this time, so that the breeze blowing inward and a 
fine thorough draft being established, the clouds of tobacco were 
carried down stairs, and arrived with quite undiminished fragrance 
to Miss Crawley and Miss Briggs. 

The pipe of tobacco finished the business ; and the Bute Craw- 
leys never knew how many thousand pounds it cost them. Firkin 
rushed down stairs to Bowls, who was reading out the " Fire and 
the Frying Pan " to his aide-de-camp in a loud and ghostly voice. 
The dreadful secret was told to him by Firkin with so frightened 
a look that, for the first moment, Mr. Bowls and his young man 
thought that robbers were in the house, the legs of whom had 
probably been discovered by the woman under Miss Crawley's bed. 
When made aware of the fact, however, to rush up stairs at three 
steps at a time, to enter the unconscious James's apartment, call- 
ing out, " Mr. James," in a voice stifled with alarm, and to cry, 
" For Gawd's sake, sir, stop that 'ere pipe," was the work of a 
minute with Mr. Bowls. " Oh, Mr. James, what 'ave you done ! " 
he said in a voice of the deepest pathos, as he threw the implement 
out of the window. " What 'ave you done, sir ! Missis can't abide 
'em." 

" Missis needn't smoke," said James, with a frantic misplaced 
laugh, and thought the whole matter an excellent joke. But his 
feelings were very different in the morning, when Mr. Bowls's 
young man, who operated upon Mr. James's boots, and brought 
him his hot water to shave that beard which he was so anxiously 
expecting, handed a note in to Mr. James in bed, in the handwrit- 
ing of Miss Briggs. 

" Dear sir," it said, " Miss Crawley has passed an exceedingly 
disturbed night, owing to the shocking manner in which the house 
has been polluted by tobacco ; Miss Crawley bids me say she re- 
grets that she is too unwell to see you before you go — and above 
all that she ever induced you to remove from the ale-house, where 
she is sure you will be much more comfortable during the rest of 
your stay at Brighton." 

And herewith honest James's career as a candidate for his aunt's 
favor ended. He had in fact, and without knowing it, done what 
he menaced to do. He had fought his cousin Pitt with the gloves. 

Where meanwhile was he who had been once first favorite for 
this race for money ? Becky and Rawdon, as we have seen, were 



384 VANIIY FAIR, 

come together after Waterloo, and were passing the winter of 1815' 
at Paris in great splendor and gayety. Rebecca was a good econ- 
omist, and the price poor Jos Sedley had paid for her two horses 
was in itself sufficient to keep their little establishment afloat for a 
year, at the least ; there was no occasion to turn into money " my 
pistols, the same which I shot Captain Marker," or the gold dressing 
case, or the cloak lined with sable. Becky had it made into a 
pelisse for herself, in which she rode in the Bois de Boulogne to- 
the admiration of all , and you should have seen the scene between 
her and her delighted husband, whom she rejoined after the army 
had entered Cambray, and when she unsewed herself, and let out of 
her dress all those watches, knick-knacks, bank-notes, checks, and 
valuables, which she had secreted in the wadding, previous to her 
meditated flight from Brussels ! Tufto was charmed, and Rawdon^ 
roared with delightful laughter, and swore that she was better than 
any play he ever saw, by Jove. And the way in which she jock- 
eyed Jos, and which she described with infinite fun, carried up his 
delight to a pitch of quite insane enthusiasm. He believed in his 
wife as much as the French soldiers in Napoleon. 

Her success in Paris was remarkable. All the French ladies 
voted her charming. She spoke their language admirably. She 
adopted at once their grace, their liveliness, their manner. Her 
husband was stupid certainly — all English are stupid — and, besides, 
a dull husband at Paris is always a point in a lady's favor. He 
was the heir of the rich and spirituelle Miss Crawley, whose house 
had been open to so many of the French noblesse during the emi- 
gration. They received the colonel's wife in their own hotels — 
"Why," wrote a great lady to Miss Crawley, who had 
bought her lace and trinkets at the duchess's own price, and given 
her many a dinner during the pinching times after the Revolution 
— " Why does not our dear miss come to her nephew and niece, 
and her attached friends in Paris ? All the world raffoles of the 
charming mistress and her espiegle beauty. Yes, we see in her 
the grace, the charm, the wit of our dear friend Miss Crawley ! 
The king took notice of her yesterday at the Tuileries, and we are 
all jealous of the attention which monsieur pays her. If you 
could have seen the spite of a certain stupid Miladi Bareacres 
(whose eagle-beak and toque and feathers may be seen peering 
over the heads of all assemblies), when Madame the Duchess of 
Angouleme, the august daughter and companion of kings, desired 
especially to be presented to Mrs. Crawley, as your dear daughter 
and protegee, and thanked her in th ename of France for all your 
benevolence toward our unfortunates during their exile ! She is 
of all the societies, of all the balls — of the balls — yes — of the 
dances, no ; and yet how interesting and pretty this fair creature 



JAME^ CRAlVLEl'\b I^IFE IS PUT OUT. 385 

looks surrounded by the homage of the men, and so soon to be a 
mother ! To hear her speak of you, her protectress, her mother, 
would bring tears to the eyes of ogres. How she loves yor, ! how 
we all love our admirable, our respectable Miss Crawley ! " 

It is to be feared that this letter of the Parisian great lady did 
not by any means advance Mrs. Becky's interest with her admira- 
ble, her respectable, relative. On the contrary, the fury of the old 
spinster was beyond bounds, when she found what was Rebecca's 
situation, and how audaciously she had made use of Miss Crawley's 
name to get an entree into Parisian society. Too much shaken in 
rhind and body to Compose a letter in the French language in reply 
to that of her correspondent, she dictated to Briggs a furious? 
answer in her own native tongue, repudiating Mrs. Rawdon Crawley 
altogether, and warning the public to beware of her as a most art' 
ful and dangerous person. But as Madame the Duchess of X — • 
had only been twenty years in England she did not understand a 
single word of the language, and contented herself by informing 
Mrs. Rawdon Crawley at their next meeting, that she had received 
a charming letter from that chere Mees, and that it was full of 
benevolent things for Mrs. Crawley, who began seriously to have 
hopes that the spinster would relent. 

Meanwhile, she was the gayest and most admired of English- 
women ; 'and had a little European congress on her reception-night. 
Prussians and Cossacks, Spanish and English — all the world was 
at Paris during this famous winter ; to have seen the stars and 
cordons in Rebecca's humble saloon would have made all Baker 
Steet pale with envy. Famous warriors rode by her carriage in the 
Bois, or crowded her modest little box at the Opera. Rawdon was 
in the highest spirits. There were no duns in Paris as yet ; there 
were parties every day at Very's or Beauvilliers' ; play was plentiful, 
and his luck good. Tufto perhaps was sulky. Mrs. Tufto had 
come over to Paris at her own invitation, and besides this con- 
tretemps, there were a score of generals now round Becky's chair, 
and she might take her choice of a dozen bouquets when she went 
to the play. Lady Bareacres and the chiefs of the English society, 
stupid and irreproachable females, writhed with anguish at th-s 
success of the little upstart Becky, whose poisoned jokes quivered 
and rankled in their chaste breasts. But she had all the men on 
her side. She fought the women with indomitable courage, --^nd 
they could not talk scandal in any tongue but their own. 

So in fetes, pleasures, and prosperity, the winter of 18 15 -16 
passed away with Mrs. Rawdon Crawley, who accommodated her- 
self to polite life as if her ancestors had been people of fashion 
for centuries past; — and who from her wit, talent, and energy, indeed 
merited a place of honor in Vanity Fair. In the early spring of 
25 



386 VANITY FAIR. 

1816, (9rt;/^^;M;7z'j-y6?;^r;M/ contained the following announcement in 
an interesting corner of the paper : " On the 26th of March — the 
lady of Lieutenant-Colonel Crawley, of the Life Guards Green 
— ^^of a son and heir." 

This event was copied into the London papers, out of which 
Miss Briggs read the statement to Miss Crawley, at breakfast, 
at Brighton. The intelligence, expected as it might have been, 
caused a crisis in the affairs of the Crawley family. The spinster's 
rage rose to its height, and sending instantly for Pitt, her nephew, 
and for the Lady Southdown, from Brunswick Square, she request- 
ed an immediate celebration of the marriage which had been so 
long pending between the two families. And she announced that 
it was her intention to allow the young couple a thousand a year 
during her lifetime, at the expiration of which the bulk of her 
property would be settled upon her nephew and her dear niece. 
Lady Jane Crawley. Waxy came down to ratify the deeds — Lord 
Southdown gave away his sister — she was married by a bishop, and 
not by Rev. Bartholomew Irons — to the disappointment of the 
irregular prelate. 

When they were married, Pitt would have liked to take a hyme- 
neal tour with his bride, as became people of their condition. 
But the affection of the old lady toward Lady Jane had grown so 
strong, that she fairly owned she could not part with her favorite. 
Pitt and his wife came, therefore, and lived with Miss Crawley ; 
and (greatly to the annoyance of poor Pitt, who conceived himself 
a most injured character — being subject to the humors of his aunt 
on one side, and of his mother-in-law on the other) Lady South- 
down, from her neighboring house, reigned over the whole family 
— Pitt, Lady Jane, Miss Crawley, Briggs, Bowls, Firkin, and all. 
She pitilessly dosed them with her tracts and her medicine, she 
dismissed Creamer, she installed Rodgers, and soon stripped Miss 
Crawley of even the semblance of authority. The poor soul grew 
so timid tha^^t she actually left off bullying Briggs any more, and 
clung to her niece, more fond and terrified every day. Peace to 
ihee, kind and selfish, vain and generous old heathen ! — We shall 
see thee no more. Let us hope that Lady Jane supported her 
kindly, and led her with gentle hand out of the busy struggle of 
Vanity Fair, 



WIDOW AND MOTHER. 



3^7 



CHAPTER XXXV. 




WIDOW AND MOTHER. 

HE news of the great fights 
of Quatre Bras and Water- 
loo reached England at the 
same time. The Gazette 
first published the result of 
the two battles : at which 
glorious intelligence all Eng- 
land thrilled with triumph 
and fear. Particulars then 
followed ; and after the 
announcement of the vic- 
tories came the list of the 
wounded and the slain. Who 
can tell the dread with which 
that catalogue was opened 
and read ! Fancy, at every 
village and homestead al- 
most through the three kingdoms, the great news coming of the 
battles in Flanders, and the feelings of exultation, and gratitude, 
bereavement and sickening dismay, when the lists of the regimental 
losses were gone through, and it became known whether the dear 
friend and relative had escaped or fallen. Anybody who will take 
the trouble of looking back to a file of the newspapers of the time, 
must, even now, feel at second-hand this breathless pause of expecta- 
tion. The lists of casualties are carried on from day to day ; you 
stop in the midst as in a story which is to be continued in our next. 
Think what the feelings must have been as those papers followed 
each other fresh from the press ; and if such an interest could 
be felt in our country, and about a battle where but twenty thousand 
ofy our people were engaged, think of the condition of Europe for 
t\ ,enty years before, where people were fighting, not by thousands, 
b^t by millions; each one of whom as he struck his enemy 
wounded horribly some other innocent heart far away. 

The news which that famous Gazette brought to the Osbornes 
gave a dreadful shock to the iamily and its chief. The girls in- 
dulged unrestrained in their grief. The gloom-stricken old father 
was still more borne down by his fate and sorrow. He strove to 



388 VANITY FAIR. 

think that a judgment was on the boy for his disobedience. He 
dared not own that the severity of the sentence frightened him, and 
that its fulfillment had come too soon upon his curses. Sometimes 
a shuddering terror struck him, as if he had been the author of the 
doom which he had called down on his son. There was a chance 
before of a reconciliation. The boy's wife might have died ; or he 
might have come back and said, Father, I have sinned. But there 
was no hope now. He stood on the other side of the gulf im- 
passable, haunting his parent with sad eyes. He remembered 
them once before so in a fever, when every one thought the lad was 
dying, and he lay on his bed speechless, and gazing with a dread- 
ful gloom. Good God ! how the father clung to the doctor then , 
and with what a sickening anxiety he followed him ; what a weight 
of grief was off his mind when, after the crisis of the fever, the 
lad recovered, and looked at his father once more with eyes that 
recognized him. But now there was no help or cure, or chance 
of reconcilement ; above all, there were no humble words to soothe 
vanity outraged and furious, or bring to its natural flow the poisoned, 
angry blood. And it is hard to say which pang it was that tore 
the proud father's heart most keenly — that his son. should have 
gone out of the reach of his forgiveness, or that the apology which 
his own pride expected should have escaped him. 

Whatever his sensations might have been, however, the stern 
old man would have no confidant. He never mentioned his son's 
name to his daughters ; but ordered the elder to place all the 
females of the establishment in mourning ; and desired that the 
male servants should be similarly attired in deep black. All par- 
ties and entertainments, of course, were to be put off. No com- 
munications were made to his future son-in-law, whose marriage- 
day had been fixed ; but there was enough in Mr. Osborne's appear- 
ance to prevent Mr. Bullock from making any inquiries, or in any 
way pressing forward that ceremony. He and the ladies whispered 
about it under their voices in the drawing-room sometimes, whither 
the father never came. He remained constantly in his own study ; 
the whole front part of the house being closed until some time 
after the completion of the general mourning. 

About three weeks after the i8th of June, Mr. Osborne's 
acquaintance. Sir William Dobbin, called at Mr. Osborne's ho: se 
in Russell Square with a very pale and agitated face, and insisved 
upon seeing that gentleman. Ushered into his room, and aftei^ a 
few words, which neither the speaker nor the host understood, the 
former produced from an inclosure a letter sealed with a large red 
seal. " My son. Major Dobbin," the Alderman said, with some 
hesitation, " dispatched me a letter by an ofiicer of the — th, who 
arrived in town to-day. My son's letter contains one for you, 



WID OIV A ND MO THER. 389 

■Osborne." The Alderman placed the letter on the table, and 
Osborne stared at him for a moment or two in silence. His looks 
frightened the ambassador, who, after looking guiltily for a little 
time at the grief-stricken man, hurried away without another word. 

The letter was in George's well-known bold handwriting. It 
was that one which he had written before day-break on the i6th of 
June, and just before he took leave of Amelia. The great red 
seal was emblazoned with the sham coat of arms which Osborne 
had assumed from the Peerage, with " Pax in bello " for a motto ; 
that of the ducal house with which the vain old man tried to fancy 
himself connected. The hand that signed it would never hold pen 
or sword more. The very seal that sealed it had been robbed from 
George's dead body as it lay on the field of battle. The father 
knew nothing of this, but sat and looked at the letter in terrified 
vacancy. He almost fell when he went to open it. 

Have you ever had a difference with a dear friend ? How his 
letters, written in the period of love and confidence, sicken and 
rebuke you ! What a dreary mourning it is to dwell upon those 
vehement protests of dead affection ! What lying epitaphs they 
make over the corpse of love ! What dark, cruel comments upon 
life and vanities ! Most of us have got or written drawers full of 
them. They are closet-skeletons which we keep and shun. 
Osborne trembled long before the letter from his dead son. 

The poor boy's letter did not say much. He had been too 
proud to acknowledge the tenderness which his heart felt. He 
only said, that on the eve of a great battle, he wished to bid his 
father farewell, and solemnly to implore his good offices for the 
wife — it might be for the child — whom he left behind him. He 
owned with contrition that his irregularities and his extravagance 
had already wasted a large part of his mother's little fortune. He 
thanked his father for his former generous conduct ; and he prom- 
ised him, that if he fell on the field or survived it, he would act in 
a manner worthy of the name of George Osborne. 

His English habit, pride, awkwardness perhaps, had prevented 
him from saying more. His father could not see the kiss George 
had placed on the superscription of his letter. Mr. Osborne drop- 
ped it with the bitterest, deadliest pang of balked affection and 
revenge. His son was still beloved and unforgiven. 

About two months afterward, however, as the young ladies of 
the family went to church with their father, they remarked how he took 
a different seat from that which he usually occupied when he 
-chose to attend divine worship ; and that from his cushion oppo- 
site, he looked up at the wall over their heads. This caused the 
young women likewise to gaze in the direction toward which their 
lather's gloomy eyes pointed ; and they saw an elaborate monu- 



390 VANITY FAIR, 

ment upon the wall, where Britannia was represe^i.-ed weeping 
over an urn, and a broken sword and a couchant 1 on indicated 
that the piece of sculpture had been erected in honor of a deceased 
warrior. The sculptors of those days had stocks of such funereal 
emblems on hand ; as you may see still on the walls of St. Paul's^ 
which are covered with hundreds of these braggart heathen allego- 
ries. There was a constant demand for them during the first fif- 
teen years of the present century. 

Under the memorial in question were emblazoned the well- 
known and pompous Osborne arms ; and the inscription said, that 
the monument was " Sacred to the memory of George Osborne,. 
Junior, Esq., late a Captain in his Majesty's — th regiment of 
foot, who fell on the i8th of June, 1815, aged 28 years, while 
fighting for his king and country in the glorious victory of Water- 
loo. Duke et decorum est pro patria morir 

The sight of that stone agitated the nerves of the sisters so- 
much, that Miss Maria was compelled to leave the church. 
The congregation made way respectfully for those sobbing girls 
clothed in deep black, and pitied the stern old father seated 
opposite the memorial of the dead soldier. " Will he forgive 
Mrs. George ? " the girls said to themselves as soon as their 
ebullition of grief was over. Much conversation passed, too^ 
among the acquaintances of the Osborne family, who knew of 
the rupture between the son and father caused by the former's mar- 
riage, as to the chance of a reconciliation with the young widow. 
There were bets among the gentlemen both about Russell Square 
and in the City. 

If the sisters had any anxiety regarding the possible recog- 
nition of Amelia as a daughter of the family, it was increased 
presently, and toward the end of autumn, by their father's 
announcement that he was going abroad. He did not say 
whither, but they knew at once that his steps would be turned 
toward Belgium, and were aware that George's widow was still 
in Brussels. They had pretty accurate news, indeed, of poor 
Amelia from Lady Dobbin and her daughters. Our honest captain 
had been promoted in consequence of the death of the second 
major of the regiment on the field ; and the brave O'Dowd, who 
had distinguished himself greatly here as upon all occasions where 
he had a chance to show his coolness and valor, was a colonel and 
Companion oi the Bath. 

Very many of the wave — th, who had suffered severely upon 
both days of action, were still at Brussels in the autumn, recover- 
ing of their wounds The city was a vast military hospital for 
months after the great battles ; and as men and officers began to 
rally from their hurts, the gardens and places of public resort 



WIDO W AND MO THER, 391 

swarmed with maimed warriors, old and young, who, just rescued 
out of death, fell to gambling, and gayety, and love-making, as 
people of Vanity Fair will do. Mr. Osborne found out some of the 
— th easily. He knew their uniform quite well, and had been 
used to follow all the promotions and exchanges in the regiment, 
and loved to talk about it, and its officers as if he had been 
one of the number. On the day after his arrival at Brussels, and as 
he issued from his hotel, which faced the park, he saw a soldier in 
the well-known facings, reposing on a stone bench in the garden, 
and went and sat down trembling by the wounded convalescent man. 

" Were you in Captain Osborne's company ? " he said, and 
added, after a pause, " he was my son, sir." 

The man was not of the captain's company, but he lifted up his 
unwounded arm and touched his cap sadly and respectfully to the 
haggard, broken-spirited gentleman who questioned him. " The 
whole army didn't contain a finer officer." the soldier said. " The 
sergeant of the captain's company (Captain Raymond had it now), 
was in town, though, and was just well of a shot in the shoulder. 
His honor might see him if he liked, who could tell him any- 
thing he wanted to know about — about the — th's actions. But his 
honor had seen Major Dobbin, no doubt, the brave captain's great 
friend ; and Mrs. Osborne, who was here too, and had been very 
bad, he heard everybody say. They say she was out of her mind 
like for six weeks or more. But your honor knows all about that 
— and asking your pardon," — the man added. 

Osborne put a guinea into the soldier's hand, and told him he 
should have another if he would bring the sergeant to the Hotel 
du Pare, a promise which very soon brought the desired officer to 
Mr. Osborne's presence. And the first soldier went away ; and 
after telling a comrade or two how Captain Osborne's father Was 
arrived, and what a free-handed, generous gentleman he was, they 
went and made good cheer with drink and feasting, as long as the 
guineas lasted which had come from the proud purse of the mourn- 
ing old father. 

In the sergeant's company, who was also just convalescent, 
Osborne made the journey of Waterloo and Quatre Bras, a journey 
which thousands of his countrymen were then taking. He took 
the sergeant with him in his carriage, and went through both 
fields under his guidance. He saw the point of the road where 
the regiment marched into action on the i6th, and the slope down 
which they drove the French cavalry who were pressing on the 
retreating Belgians. There was the spot where the noble captain 
cut down the French officer who was grappling with the young 
ensign for the colors, the color-sergeants having been shot down. 
Along this road they retreated on the next day, and here was the 



392 VANITY fair: 

bank at which the regiment bivouacked under the rain of the 
night of the seventeenth. Further on was the position which they 
took and held during the day, forming time after time to receive 
the charge of the enemy's horsemen and lying down under the 
shelter of the bank from the furious French cannonade. And it 
was at this declivity when, at evening, the whole English line 
received the order to advance, as the enemy fell back after his last 
charge, that the captain, hurrahing and rushing down the hill wav- 
ing his sword, received a shot and fell dead. " It was Major Dob- 
bin who took back the captain's body to Brussels," the sergeant 
said, in a low voice, " and had him buried, as your honor knows." 
The peasants and relic-hunters about the place were screaming 
round the pair, as the soldier told his story, offering for sale all 
sorts of mementoes of the fight, crosses, and epaulets, and shattered 
cuirasses, and eagles. 

Osborne gave a sumptuous reward to the sergeant when he part- 
ed with him, after having visited the scenes of his son's last 
exploits. His burial-place he had already seen. Indeed, he had 
driven thither immediately after his arrival at Brussels. George's 
body lay in the pretty burial-ground of Laeken, near the city; in 
which place, having once visited it on a party of pleasure, he had 
lightly expressed a wish to have his grave made. And there the 
young officer was laid by his friend, in the unconsecrated corner of 
the garden, separated by a little hedge from the temples and towers 
and plantations of flowers and shrubs, under which the Roman 
Catholic dead repose. It seemed a humiliation to old Osborne to 
think that his son, an English gentleman, a captain in the famous 
British army, should not be found worthy to lie in ground where 
mere foreigners were buried. Which of us is there can tell how 
much vanity lurks in our warmest regard for others, and how selfish 
our love is 1 Old Osborne did not speculate much upon the min- 
gled nature of his feelings, and how his instinct and selfishness were 
combating together. He firmly believed that everything he did 
was right, that he ought, on all occasions to have his own way — 
and like the sting of a wasp or serpent, his hatred rushed out 
armed and poisoned against anything like opposition. He was 
proud of his hatred as of everything else. Always to be right, 
always to trample forward, and never to doubt, are not these the 
great qualities with which dullness takes the lead in the world ? 

As after the drive to Waterloo, Mr. Osborne's carriage was 
nearing the gates of the city at sunset, they met another open 
barouche, in w^hich were a couple of ladies and a gentleman, and 
by the side of which an officer was riding. Osborne gave a start 
back, and the sergeant, seated with him, cast a look of surprise at 
his neighbor, as he touched his cap to the officer who mechan- 



/ 



WIDOW AND MOTHER. 



393 



ically returned his salute. It was Amelia, with the lame 3^oung 
ensign by her side, and opposite to her her faithful friend Mrs. 
O'Dowd. It was Amelia, but how changed from the fresh and 
comely girl Osborne knew. Her face was white and thin. Her 
pretty brown hair was parted under a widow's cap — the poor child. 
Her eyes were fixed, and looking nowhere. They stared blank in 
the face of Osborne, as the carriages crossed each other, but she 
did not know him ; nor did he recognize her, until looking up, he 
saw Dobbin riding by her ; and then he knew who it- was. He 
hated her. He did not know how much until he saw her there. 
When her carriage had passed on, he turned and stared at the ser- 
geant, with a curse and defiance in his eye cast at his companion, 
who could not help looking at him — as much as to say, " How 
dare you look at me ? Damn you ! I do hate her. It is she who 
has tumbled my hopes and all my pride down." "Tell the scoun- 
drel to drive on quick," he shouted with an oath, to the lackey on 
the box. A minute afterward, a horse came clattering o/er the 
pavement behind Osborne's carriage, and Dobbin rode up. His 
thoughts had been elsewhere as the carriages passed each other, 
and it was not until he had ridden some paces forward, that he 
remembered it was Osborne who had just passed him. Then he 
turned to examine if the sight of her father-in-law had made any 
impression on Amelia, but the poor girl did not know who had 
passed. Then William, who daily used to accompany her in his 
drives, taking out his watch, made some excuse about an engage- 
ment which he suddenly recollected, and so rode off. She did 
not remark that either; but sat looking before her, over the 
homely landscape toward the woods in the distance, by which 
George marched away. 

" Mr. Osborne, Mr. Osborne ! " cried Dobbin, as he rode up 
and held out his hand. Osborne made no motion to take it, but 
shouted out once more and with another curse to his servant to 
drive on. 

Dobbin laid his hand on the carriage side. " I will see you, 
sir," he said. *' I have a message for you." 

" From that woman ? " said Osborne, fiercely. 

" No," replied the other, " from your son ; " at which Osborne 
fell back into the corner of his carriage, and Dobbin, allowing it to 
pass on, rode close behind it, and so through the town until they 
reached Mr. Osborne's hotel, and without a word. There he fol- 
lowed Osborne up to his apartments. George had often been in 
the rooms ; they were the lodgings which the Crawleys had occu- 
pied during their stay in Brussels. 

" Pray, have you any commands for me. Captain Dobbin, or I 
beg your pardon, I should say Major Dobbin, since better me:: 



394 VANITY EAIR. 

than you are dead, and you step into their shoes ? " said Mr. 
Osborne, in that sarcastic tone which he sometimes was pleased 
to assume. 

" Better men are dead," Dobbin replied. " I want to speak 
to you about one." 

" Make it short, sir," said the other with an oath, scowUng at 
his visitor. 

" I am here as his closest friend," the major resumed, " and the 
executor of his will. He made it before he went into action. Are 
you aware how small his means are, and of the straitened circum- 
stances of his widow ? " 

" I don't know his widow, sir," Osborne said. " Let her go 
back to her father." But the gentleman whom he addressed was 
determined to remain in good temper, and went on without heed- 
ing the interruption. 

" Do you know, sir, Mrs. Osborne's condition ? Her life and 
her reason almost have been shaken by the blow which has fallen 
on her. It is very doubtful whether she will rally. There is a 
chance left for her, however, and it is about this I came to speak 
to you. She will be a mother soon. Will you visit the parent's 
offense upon the child's head ? or will you forgive the child for 
poor George's sake .'* " 

Osborne broke out into a rhapsody of self-praise and impreca- 
tions — by the first, excusing himself to his own conscience for his 
conduct ; by the second, exaggerating the undutifulness of George. 
No father in all England could have behaved more generously to 
a son who had rebelled against him wickedly^ He had died with- 
out even so much as confessing he was wrong. Let him take the 
consequences of his undutifulness and folly. As for himself, Mr. 
Osborne, he was a man of his w^ord. He had sworn never to 
speak to that woman, or to recognize her as his son's wife. " And 
that's what you may tell her," he concluded with an oath; "and 
that's what I will stick to to the last day of my life." 

There was no hope from that quarter then. The widow must 
live on her slender pittance, or on such aid as Jos could give her. 
" I might tell her, and she would not heed it," thought Dobbin 
sadly : for the poor girl's thoughts were not here at all since her 
catastrophe, and, stupefied under the pressure of her sorrow, good 
and evil were alike indifferent to her. 

So, indeed, were even friendship and kindness. She received 
them both uncomplainingly, and having accepted them, relapsed 
into her grief. 

Suppose some twelve months after the above conversation took 
place to have passed in the life of our poor Amelia. She has spent 



V/IDOW AA^D MOTHER. 395 

the first portion of that time in a sorrow so profound and pitiable, 
that we who have been watching and describing some of the emo- 
tions of that weak and tender heart, must draw back in the pres- 
ence of the cruel grief under which it is bleeding. Tread silently 
round the hapless couch of the poor prostrate soul. Shut gently 
the door of the dark chamber wherein she suffers, as those kind 
people did who nursed her through the first months of her pain, 
and never left her until heaven had sent her consolation. A day 
came — of almost terrified delight and wonder — when the poor 
widowed girl pressed a child upon her breast — a child, with the 
eyes of George who was gone — a little boy, as beautiful as a 
cherub. What a miracle it was to hear its first cry ! How she 
laughed and wept over it — how love, and hope, and prayer woke 
again in her bosom as the baby nestled there. She was safe. The 
doctors who attended her, and had feared for her life or for her 
brain, had waited anxiously for this crisis before they could pro- 
nounce that either was secure. It was worth the long months of 
doubt and dread which the persons who had constantly been with 
her had passed, to see her eyes once more beaming tenderly upon 
them. 

Our friend Dobbin was one of them. It was he who brought 
her back to England and to her mother's house, when Mrs. O'Dowd, 
receiving a peremptory summons from her colonel, had been forced 
to quit her patient. To see Dobbin holding the infant, and to 
hear Amelia's laugh of triumph as she watched him, would have 
done any man good who had a sense of humor. William was the 
godfather of the child, and exerted his ingenuity in the purchase 
of cups, spoons, pap-boats, and corals for this little Christian. 

How his mother nursed him, and dressed him, and lived upon 
him ; how she drove away all nurses, and would scarce allow any 
hand but her own to touch him; how she considered that the 
greatest favor she could confer upon his godfather. Major Dobbin, 
was to allow the major occasionally to dandle him, need not be 
told here. This child was her being. Her existence was a 
maternal caress. She enveloped the feeble and unconscious 
creature with love and worship. It was her life which the baby 
drank in from her bosom. Of nights, and when alone, she had 
stealthy and intense raptures of motherly love, such as God's mar- 
velous care has awarded to the female instinct — joys how far 
higher and lower than reason — blind, beautiful devotions which 
only women's hearts know. It v>'as William Dobbin's task to muse 
upon these movements of Amelia's, and to watch her heart ; and 
if his love made him divine almost all the feelings which agitated 
it, alas ! he could see with a fatal perspicuity that there was no 



WIDOW AND MOTHER, 



397 



place there for him. And so, gently, he bore nis fate, knowing it, 
and content to bear it. 

I suppose Amelia's father and mother saw through the inten- 
tions of the major, and were not ill-disposed to encourage him ; 
for Dobbin visited their house daily, and stayed for hours with 
them, or with Amelia, or with the honest landlord, Mr. Clapp, and 
his family. He brought, on one pretext or another, presents to 
everybody and almost every day, and went, with the landlord's 
little girl, who was rather a favorite with Amelia, by the name of 
Major Sugarplums. It was this little child who commonly acted 
as mistress of the ceremonies to introduce him to Mrs. Osborne. 
She laughed one day when Major Sugarplums' cab drove up to 
Fulham, and he descended from it, bringing out a wooden horse, 
a drum, a trumpet, and other warlike toys, for little Georgy, who 
was scarcely six months old, and for whom the articles in question 
were entirely premature. 

The child was asleep. " Hush," said Amelia, annoyed, per- 
haps, at the creaking of the major's boots ; and she held out her 
hand, smiling because William could not take it until he had rid 
himself of his cargo of toys. " Go down stairs, little Mary," said 
he presently to the child, " I want to speak to Mrs. Osborne." 
She looked up rather astonished, and laid down the infant on its 
bed. 

" I am come to say good-by, Amelia," said he, taking her slender 
little white hand gently. 

" Good-by ? and where are you going ? " she said, with a smile. 

"Send the letters to the agents," he said; "they will forward 
them ; for you will write to me, won't you ? I shall be away a long 
time." 

" I'll write to you about Georgy," she said. " Dear William, 
how good you have been to him and to me. Look at him. Isn't 
he like an angel ? " 

The little pink hands of the child closed mechanically round the 
honest soldier's fingers, and Amelia looked up in his face with 
bright maternal pleasure. The crudest looks could not have 
wounded him more than that glance of hopeless kindness. He 
bent over the child and mother. He could not speak for a moment. 
And it was only with all his strength that he could force himself 
to say a God bless you. " God bless you," said Amelia, and held 
up her face and kissed him. 

" Hush ! Don't wake Georgy ! " she added, as William Dobbin 
went to the door with heavy steps. She did not hear the noise of 
his cab-wheels as he drove away ; she was looking at the child, 
who was laughing in his sleep. 



VANITY FAIR. 



CHAPTER XXXVI. 



HOW TO LIVE WELL ON NOTHING A YEAR. 

SUPPOSE there is no man in 
this Vanity Fair of ours so little 
observant as not to think some- 
times about the worldly affairs 
of his acquaintances, or so ex- 
tremely charitable as not to won- 
der how his neighbor Jones, or 
his neighbor Smith, can make 
both ends meet at the end of the 
year. With the utmost regard 
for the family, for instance (for I 
dine with them twice or thrice in 
the season), I can not but own 
that the appearance of the Jenk- 
inses in the Park, in the large 
barouche, with the grenadier 
'footmen, will surprise and mysti- 
fy me to my dying day; for 
though I knov/ the equipage is 
only jobbed, and all the Jenkins 
people are on board wages, yet 
those three men and the carriage must represent an expense of 
six hundred a year at the very least — and then there are the splendid 
dinners, the two boys at Eton, the prize governes sand masters 
for the girls, the trip abroad, or to Eastbourne or Worthing, in the 
autumn, the annual ball with a supper from Gunter's (who, by the 
way, supplies most of the first-rate dinners which J. gives, as I know 
very well, having been invited to one of them to fill a vacant 
place, when I saw at once that these repasts are very superior to 
the common run of entertainments for which the humbler sort of 
J.'s acquaintances get cards) — who, I say, with the most good-na- 
tured feelings in the world, can help wondering how the Jenkinses 
make out matters ? What is Jenkins ? We all know — Commis- 
sioner of the Tape and Seahng Wax Office, with ^1200 a year for 
a salary. Had his wife a private fortune ? Pooh ! — Miss Flint — > 
one of eleven children of a small squire in Buckinghamshire. All 
she ever gets from her family is a turkey at Christmas, in exchange 
for which she has to board two or three of her sisters in the oft 




HOW TO LIVE WE^i^L ON NOTHING A YEAR. 399 

season ; and lodge and feed ter brothers when they come to town. 
How does Jenkins balance His income ? I say, as every friend of 
his must say, How is it that he has not been outlawed long since ; 
and that he ever came back (as he did, to the surprise of every- 
body) last year from Boulogne ? 

" I " is here introduced to personify the world in general — the 
Mrs. Grundy of each respected reader's private circle — every one 
of whom can point to some families of his acquaintance who live 
nobody knows how. Many a glass of wine have we all of us 
drank, I have very little doubt, hob-and-nobbing with the hospita- 
ble giver, and wondering how the deuce he paid for it. 

Some three or four years after his stay in Paris, when Rawdon 
Crawley and his wife were established in a very small comfortable 
house in Curzon Street, May Fair, there were scarcely one of the 
numerous friends whom they entertained at dinner that did not ask 
the above question regarding them. The novelist, it has been 
said before, knows everything, and as I am in a situation to be 
able to tell the public how Crawley and his wife lived without any 
income, may I entreat the public newspapers which are in the 
habit of extracting portions of the various periodical works now 
published, not to reprint the following exact narrative and calcu- 
lations — of which I ought, as the discoverer (and at some expense, 
too), to have the benefit ? My son, I would say, were I blessed 
with a child — you may by deep inquiry and constant intercourse 
with him, learn how a man lives comfortably on nothing a year. 
But it is best not to be intimate with gentlemen of this profession, 
and to take the calculations at second-hand, as you do logarithms, 
for to work them yourself, depend upon it, will cost you something 
considerable. 

On nothing per annum, then, and during a course of some two or 
three years, of which we can afford to give but a very brief history, 
Crawley and his wife lived very happily and comfortably in Paris. 
It was in this period that he quitted the Guards, and sold out of 
the army. When we find him again, his mustachios and the title 
of colonel on his card are the only relics of his military pro- 
fession. 

It has been mentioned that Rebecca, soon after her arrival in 
Paris, took a very smart and leading position in the society of that 
capital, and was welcomed at some of the most distinguished 
houses of the restored French nobility. The Englishmen of 
fashion in Paris courted her, too, to the disgust of the ladies their 
wives, who could not bear the pan^enue. For some months the 
salons of the Faubourg St. Germain, in which her place was secur- 
ed, and the splendors of the new court where she was received 
with much distinction, delighted and perhaps a little intoxicated 



400 



VANITY FAIR. 






Mrs. Crawley, who may have been disposed during this period of 
elation to slight the people — honest young military men mostly — 
wiio formed her husband's chief societ}^ 

But the colonel yawned sadly among the duchesses and great 
ladies of the court. The old women who played ecarte made such 
a noise about a five-franc piece that it was not worth Colonel 
Crawley's while to sit down at a card-table. The wit of their 
conversation he could not appreciate, being ignorant of their lan- 
guage. And what good could his wife get, he urged, by making 




courtesies every night to a whole circle of princesses ? He left 
Rebecca presently to frequent these parties alone ; resuming his 
own simple pursuits and amusements among the amiable friends 
of his own choice. 

The truth is, when we say of a gentleman that he lives elegantly 
on nothing a year, we use the word " nothing " to signify some- 
thing unknown : meaning simply that we don't know how the 
gentleman in question defrays the expenses of his estabhshment. 
Now, our friend the colonel had a great aptitude for all games of 
chance, and exercising himself, as he continually did, with the 
cards, the dice-box, or the cue, it is natural to suppose that he 
attained a much greater skill in the use of these articles than men 



HOW TO LIVE WELL ON NOTHING A YEAR. 401 

can possess who only occasionally handle them. To use a cue at 
billiards well is like using a pencil, or a German flute, or a small- 
sword — yon can not master any one of these implements at first, 
and it is only by repeated study and perseverance, joined to a 
natural taste, that a man can excel in the handling, of either. 
Now Crawley, from being only a brilliant amateur, had grown to 
be a consummate master of billiards. Like a great general, his 
genius used to rise with the danger, and when the luck had been 
unfavorable to him for a whole game, and the bets were conse- 
quently against him, he would, with consummate skill and bold- 
ness, make some prodigious hits which would restore the battle, 
and come in a victor at the end, to the astonishment of everybody 
— of everybody, that is, who was a stranger to his play. Those who 
were accustomed to see it were cautious how they staked their 
money against a man of such sudden resources and brilliant and 
overpowering skill. 

At games of cards he was equally skillful ; for though he would 
constantly lose money at the commencement of an evening, play- 
ing so carelessly and making such blunders, that new-comers were 
often inclined to think meanly of his talent, yet when roused to 
action, and awakened to caution by repeated small losses, it was 
remarked that Crawley's play became quite different, and that he 
was pretty sure of beating his enemy thoroughly before the night 
was over. Indeed, very few men could say that they ever had 
the better of him. 

His successes were so repeated that no wonder the envious and 
the vanquished spoke sometimes with bitterness regarding them. 
And as the French say of the Duke of Wellington, who never 
suffered a defeat, that only an astonishing series of lucky accidents 
enabled him to be an invariable winner ; yet even they allow that 
he cheated at Waterloo, and was enabled to win the last great 
trick — so it was hinted at head-quarters in England, that some 
foul play must have taken place in order to account for the con- 
tinuous successes of Colonel Crawley. 

Though Frascati's and the Salon were open at that time in 
Paris, the mania for play was so widely spread that the public 
gambling-rooms did not suffice for the general ardor, and gamb- 
ling went on in private houses as much as if there had been no 
public means for gratifying the passion. At Crawley's charming 
little reunions of an evening this fatal amusement commonly was 
practiced— much to good-natured little Mrs. Crawley's annoyance. 
She spoke about her husband's passion for dice with the deepest 
grief, she bewailed it to everybody who came to her house. She 
besought the young fellows never, never to touch a box ; and 
when young Green, of the Rifles, lost a very considerable sum of 
26 



402 VANITY FAIR. 

money, Rebecca passed a whole night in tears, as the servant told 
the unfortunate young gentleman, and actually went on her knees 
to her husband to beseech him to remit the debt, and burn the 
acknowledgment. How could he ? He had lost just as much 
himself to Blackstone of the Hussars, and Count Punter of the 
Hanoverian Cavalry. Green might have any decent time : but 
pay ? — of course he must pay ; to talk of burning 1 O U's was 
child's play. 

Other officers, chiefly young — for the young fellows gathered 
round Mrs. Crawley^came from her parties with long faces, 
having dropped more or less money at her fatal card-tables. Her 
house began to have an unfortunate reputation. The old hands 
warned the less experienced of their danger. Colonel O'Dowd, of 
the — th regiment, one of those occupying in Paris, warned Lieu- 
tenant Spooney of that corps. A loud and violent fracas took 
place between the infantry colonel and his lady, who were dining 
at the Cafe de Paris, and Colonel and Mrs. Crawley who were 
also taking their meal there. The ladies engaged on both sides. 
Mrs. O'Dowd snapped her fingers in Mrs. Crawley's face, and 
called her husband " no betther than a blackleg." Colonel Craw- 
ley challenged Colonel O'Dowd, C.B. The commander-in-chief 
hearing of the dispute, sent for Colonel Crawley, who was getting 
ready the same pistols " which he shot Captain Marker," and had 
such a conversation with him that no duel took place. If Rebecca 
had not gone on her knees to General Tufto, Crawley would have 
been sent back to England ; and he did not play, except with 
civilians, for some weeks after. 

But in spite of Rawdon's undoubted skill and constant success- 
es, it became evident to Rebecca, considering these things, that 
their position was but a precarious one, and that, even although 
they paid scarcely anybod)^, their little capital would end one day 
by dwindling into zero. " Gambhng," she would say, " dear, is 
good to help your income, but not as an income itself. Some day 
people may be tired of play, and then where are we ? " Rawdon 
acquiesced in the justice of her opinion, and in truth he had 
remarked that after a few nights of his little suppers, etc., gentle- 
men were tired of play with him, and, in spite of Rebecca's charms, 
did not present themselves very eagerly. 

Easy and pleasant as their life at Paris was, it was after all only 
an idle dalliance and amiable trifling ; and Rebecca saw that she 
must push Rawdon's fortune in their own country. She must get 
him a place or appointment at home or in the colonies ; and she 
determined to make a move upon England as soon as the way 
could be cleared for her. As a first step she had made Crawley 
sell out of ihe Guards, and go on half-pay. His function as aide- 



404 VANITY FAIR. 

de-camp to General Tufto had ceased previously. Rebecca laughed 
in all companies at that officer, at his toupee (which he mounted 
on coming to Paris), at his waistband, at his false teeth, at 
his pretensions to be a lady-killer above all, and his absurd 
vanity in fancying every woman whom he came near was in love 
with him. It was to Mrs. Brent, the beetle-browed wife of Mr. 
Commissary Brent, to whom the general transferred his attentions 
now — his bouquets, his dinners at the restaurateurs', his opera- 
boxes, and his knick-knacks. Poor Mrs. Tufto was no more happy 
than before, and still had to pass long evenings alone with her daugh- 
ters, knowing that her general was gone off scented and curled to 
stand behind Mrs. Brunt's chair at the play. Becky had a dozen 
admirers in his place, to be sure, and could cut her rival to pieces 
with her wit. But, as we have said, she was growing tired of this 
idle, social life ; opera-boxes and restaurateur dinners palled upon 
her, nosegays could not be laid by as a provision for future years, 
and she could not live upon knick-knacks, laced handkerchiefs, 
and kid gloves. She felt the frivolity of pleasure, and longed for 
more substantial benefits. 

At this juncture news arrived which spread among the many 
creditors of the colonel at Paris, and which caused them great 
satisfaction. Miss Crawley, the rich aunt from whom he expected 
his immense inheritance, was dying ; the colonel must haste to her 
bedside. Mrs. Crawley and her child would remain behind until he 
came to reclaim them. He departed for Calais, and having 
reached that place in safety, it might have been supposed that he 
went to Dover; but instead he took the diligence to Dunkirk, 
and thence traveled to Brussels, for which place he had a former 
predilection. The fact is, he owed more money at London than at 
Paris ; and he preferred the quiet little Belgian city to either of 
the more noisy capitals. 

Her aunt was dead. Mrs. Crawley ordered the most intense 
mourning for herself and little Rawdon. The colonel was busy 
arranging the affairs of the inheritance. They could take the 
premier now, instead of the little entresol of the hotel which they 
occupied. Mrs. Crawdey and the landlord had a consultation 
about the new hangings, an amicable wrangle about the carpets, 
and a final adjustment of everything except the bill. She went off 
in one of his carriages, her French bonne with her, the child by her 
side — the admirable landlord and landlady smiling farewell to her 
from the gate. General Tufto was furious when he heard she was 
gone, and Mrs. Brent furious with him for being furious ; Lieuten- 
ant Spooney was cut to the heart ; and the landlord got ready_ his 
best apartments previous to the return of the fascinating little 
woman and her husband. He serred the truriks which she left in 



HOW TO LIVE WELL ON NOTHING A YEAR. 



405 



his charge with the greatest care. They had been especially 
recommended to him by Madame Crawley. They were not, how- 
ever, found to be particularly valuable when opened some time 
after. 

But before she went to join her husband in the Belgic capital, 
Mrs. Crawley made an expedition into England, leaving behind 
her her little son upon the Continent, under the care of her French 
maid. 




The parting between Rebecca and the little Rawdon did not 
cause either party much pain. She had not, to say truth, seen 
much of the young gentleman since his birth. After the amiable 
fashion of French mothers, she had placed him out at nurse in a 
village in the neighborhood of Paris, where little Rawdon passed 
the first months of his life not unhappily, with a numerous family 
of foster-brothers in wooden shoes. His father would ride over 
many a time to see him here, and the elder Rawdon's paternal 
heart glowed to see him rosy and dirty, shouting lustily, and happy 



4o6 VANITY FAIR. 

in the making of mud pies under the superintendence of the gar- 
dener's wife, his nurse. 

Rebecca did not care much to go and see the son and heir. 
Once he spoiled a new dove-colored pelisse of hers. He preferred 
his nurse's caresses to his mamma's, and when finally he quitted 
that jolly nurse and almost parent, he cried loudly for hours. He 
was only consoled by his mother's promise that he should return 
to his nurse the next day ; indeed, the nurse herself, who probably 
would have been pained at the parting too, was told that the child 
would immediately be restored to her, and for some time waited 
quite anxiously his return. 

In fact, our friends may be said to have been among the first of 
that brood of hardy English adventurers who have subsequently 
invaded the Continent, and swindled in all the capitals of Europe, 
The respect in those happy days of 1817-1818 was very great for 
the wealth and honor of Britons. They had not then learned, as I 
am told, to haggle for bargains with the pertinacity which now 
distinguishes them. The great cities of Europe had not been as 
yet open to the enterprise of our rascals. And whereas there is 
now hardly a town of France or Italy in which you shall not see 
some noble countryman of our own, with that happy swagger 
and insolence of demeanor which we carry everywhere, swindling 
inn landlords, passing fictitious checks upon credulous bankers, 
robbing coach-makers of their carriages, goldsmiths of their 
trinkets, easy travelers of their money at cards, even public 
libraries of their books — thirty years ago you needed but to be a 
Milor Anglais, traveling in a private carriage, and credit was at 
your hand wherever you chose to seek it, and gentlemen, 
instead of cheating, were cheated. It was not for some weeks 
after the Crawleys' departure that the landlord of the hotel which 
they occupied during their residence at Paris found out the losses 
which he had sustained — not until Madame Marabou, the milliner, 
made repeated visits with her little bill for articles supplied to 
Madame Crawley, not until Monsieur Didelot, from Boule d'Or in 
the Palais Royal, had asked half a dozen times whether cette 
charmante miladi who had bought watches and bracelets of him 
was de reioitr. It is a fact that even the poor gardener's wife, 
who had nursed madame's child, was never paid after the first six 
months for that supply of the milk of human kindness with which 
she had furnished the lusty and healthy little Rawdon. No, not 
even the nurse was paid — the Crawleys were in too great a hurry 
to remember their trifling debt to her. As for the landlord of the 
hotel, his curses against the English nation were violent for the 
rest of his natural life. He asked all travelers whether they 
knew a certain Colonel Lor Crawley — avec sa femme — une petite 



HOW TO LIVE WELL ON NOTHING A YEAR. 407 

dame^ trh spiritiielle. ^^ Ah, Monsieur P^ he would add, ^'- ilsm^onl 
affreusement voleJ^ It was melancholy to hear his accents as he 
spoke of that catastrophe. 

Rebecca's object in her journey to London was to effect 
a kind of compromise with her husband's numerous creditors, and 
by offering them a dividend of ninepence or a shilling in the 
pound, to secure a return for him into his own country. It does 
not become us to trace the steps which she took in the conduct of 
this most difficult negotiation, but, having shown them to their 
satisfaction that the sum which she was empowered to offer was 
all her husband's available capital, and having convinced them 
that Colonel Crawley would prefer a perpetual retirement on the 
Continent to a residence in this country with his debts unsettled — 
having proved to them that there was no possibility of money 
accruing to him from other quarters, and no earthly chance of 
their getting a larger dividend than that which she was empowered 
to offer — she brought the colonel's creditors unanimously to 
accept her proposals, and purchased with fifteen hundred pounds 
of ready money more than ten times that amount of debts. 

Mrs. Crawley employed no lawyer in the transaction. The 
matter was so simple, to have or to leave, as she justly observed, 
that she made the lawyers of the creditors themselves do the 
business. And Mr. Lewis, representing Mr. Davids, of Red Lion 
Square, and Mr. Moss, acting for Mr. Manasseh of Cursitor Street 
(chief creditors of the colonel's), complimented his lady upon the 
brilliant way in which she did business, and declared that there 
was no professional man who could beat her. 

Rebecca received their congratulations with perfect modesty ; 
ordered a bottle of sherry and a bread c?\ie to the little dingy 
lodgings where she dwelt while conducting the business, to treat 
the enemy's lawyers ; shook hands with them at parting, in 
excellent good humor, and returned straightway to the Continent, 
to rejoin her husband and son, and acquaint the former with the 
glad news of his entire liberation. As for the latter, he had been 
considerably neglected during his mother's absence by Made- 
moiselle Genevieve, her French maid ; for that young woman, 
contracting an attachment for a soldier in the garrison of Calais, 
forgot her charge in the society of this milifaire, and little Rawdon 
very narrowly escaped drowning on Calais sands at this period, 
where the absent Genevieve had left and lost him. 

And so. Colonel and Mrs. Crawley came to London ; and it is 
at their house in Curzon Street, May Fair, that they really showed 
the skill which must be possessed by those who would live on the 
resources above named. 



4o8 



VANJTV FAIR, 



CHAPTER XXXVII. 




THE SUBJECT CONTINUED. 

N the first place, and as a matter of the 
greatest necessity, we are bound to describe 
how a house may be got for nothing a year. 
These _ mansions are to be had either 
unfurnished, where, if you have credit with 
Messrs. Gillows or Bantings, you can get 
them splendidly montees and decorated en- 
tirely according to your own fancy ; or 
they are to be let furnished — a less troub- 
lesome and complicated arrangement to 
most parties. It was so that Crawley and 
his wife preferred to hire their house. 

Before Mr. Bowls came to preside over 
Miss Crawley's house and cellar, in Park 
Lane, that lady had had for a butler a Mr. 
Raggles, who was born on the family estate 
of Queen's Crawley, and indeed was a younger son of a gardener 
there. By good conduct, a handsome person and calves, and a 
grave demeanor, Raggles rose from the knife-board to the foot- 
board of the carriage ; from the footboard to the butler's pantry. 
When he had been a certain number of years at the head of Miss 
Crawley's establishment, where he had had gOod wages, fat per- 
quisites and plenty of opportunities of saving, he announced that 
he was about to contract a matrimonial alliance with a late cook of 
Miss Crawley's, who had subsisted in an honorable manner by the 
exercise of a mangle and the keeping of a small green-grocer's 
shop in the neighborhood. The truth is, that the ceremony had 
been clandestinely performed some years back ; although the news 
of Mr. Raggles's marriage was first brought to Miss Crawley by a 
little boy and girl of seven and eight years of age, whose continual 
presence in the kitchen had attracted the attention of Miss Briggs. 
Mr. Raggles then retired and personally undertook the super- 
intendence of the small shop and the greens. He added milk and 
cream, eggs and country-fed pork to his stores, contenting him- 
self, while other retired butlers were vending spirits in public- 
houses, by dealing in the simplest country produce. And having 
a good connection among the butlers in the neighborhood, and a 



THE SUBJECT CONTINUED. 409 

snug back parlor where he and Mrs. Raggles received them, his 
milk, cream and eggs got to be adopted by many of the fraternity, 
and his profits increased every year. Year after year he quietly 
and modestly amassed money, and when at length that snug and 
complete bachelor's residence at No. 201 Curzon Street, May Fair, 
lately the residence of the Honorable Frederick Deuceace, gone 
abroad, with his rich and appropriate furniture by the first makers, 
was brought to the hammer, who should go in and purchase the 
lease and furniture of the house but Charles Raggles ! A part of 
the money he borrowed, it is true, and at rather a high interest, 
from a brother butler, but the chief part he paid down, and it was 
with no small pride that Mrs. Raggles found herself sleeping in a 
bed of carved mahogony, with silk curtains, with a prodigious 
cheval glass opposite to her, and a wardrobe which would contain 
her and Raggles and all the family. 

Of course they did not intend to occupy permanently an apart- 
ment so splendid. It was in order to let the house again that 
Raggles purchased it. As soon as a tenant was found he subsided 
into the green-grocer's shop once more ; but a happy thing it was 
for him to walk out of that tenement and into Curzon Street, and 
there survey his house — his own house — with geraniums in the 
window and a carved bronze knocker. The footman occasionally 
lounging at the area-railing treated him with respect ; the cook 
took her green stuff at his house, and called him Mr. Landlord ; 
and there was not one thing the tenants did, or one dish which 
they had for dinner, that Raggles might not know of, if he liked. 

He was a good man — good and happy. The house brought him 
in so handsome a yearly income, that he was determined to send 
his children to good schools, and accordingly, regardless of 
expense, Charles was sent to boarding at Dr. Swishtail's, Sugar- 
cane Lodge, and little Matilda to Miss Peckover's, Laurentinum 
House, Clapham. 

Raggles loved and adored the Crawley family as the author of 
all his prosperity in life. He had a silhouette of his mistress in 
his back shop, and a drawing of the porter's lodge at Queen's 
Crawley, done by that spinster herself in India ink — and the only 
addition he made to the decorations of the Curzon Street house 
was a print of Queen's Crawley in Hampshire, the seat of Sir 
Walpole Crawley, Baronet, who was represented in a gilded car 
drawn by six white horses, and passing by a lake covered with 
swans, and barges containing ladies in hoops, and musicians with 
flags and periwigs. Indeed, Raggles thought there was no such 
palace in all the world, and no such august family. 

As luck would have it, Raggles's house in Curzon Street was to 
let when Rawdon and his wife returned to London. The colonel 



410 VANITY FAIR. 

knew it and its owner quite well ; the latter's connection with the 
Crawley family had been kept up constantly, for Raggles helped 
Mr. Bowls whenever Miss Crawley received friends. And the old 
man not only let his house to the colonel, but oifficiated as his 
butler whenever he had company, Mrs. Raggles operating in the 
kitchen below, and sending up dinners of which old Miss Crawley 
hercelf might have approved. This was the way, then, Crawley 
got his house for nothing ; for though Raggles had to pay taxes 
and rates, and the interest of the mortgage to the brother butler, 
and the insurance of his life, and the charges for his children at 
school, and the value of the meat and drink which his own family 
— and for a time that of Colonel Crawley too — consumed, and 
though the poor wretch was utterly ruined by the transaction, his 
children being flung on the streets, and himself driven into the Fleet 
Prison, yet somebody must pay even for gentlemen who live for 
nothing a year ; and so it was this unlucky Raggles who was made 
the representative of Colonel Crawley's defective capital. 

I wonder how many families are diiven to roguery and to ruin 
by great practitioners in Crawley's way ? — how many great noble- 
men rob their petty tradesmen, condescend to swindle their poor 
retainers out of wretched little sums, and cheat for a few shillings ? 
When we read that a noble nobleman has left for the Continent, 
or that another noble nobleman had an execution in his house, 
and that one or other owes six or seven millions, the defeat seems 
glorious even, and we respect the victim in the vastness of his 
ruin. But who pities a poor barber who can't get his money for 
powdering the footmen's heads ; or a poor carpenter who has 
ruined himself by fixing up ornaments and pavilions for my lady's 
dejeuner ; or the poor devil of a tailor whom the steward patron- 
izes, and who has pledged all he is worth, and more, to get the liv- 
eries ready which my lord has done him the honor to bespeak ? 
When the great house tumbles down, these miserable wretches fall 
under it unnoticed. As they say in the old legends, before a man 
goes to the devil himself, he sends plenty of other souls thither. 

Rawdon and his wife generously gave their patronage to all 
such of Miss Crawley's tradesmen and purveyors as chose to 
serve them. Some were wilhng enough, especially the poor ones. 
It was wonderful to see the pertinacity with which the washer- 
woman from Tooting brought the cart every Saturday, and her 
bills week after week. Mr. Raggles himself had to supply the 
green-groceries. The bill for servants' porter at the Fortune of 
War public-house is a curiosity in the chronicles of beer. Every 
servant also was owed the greater part of his wages, and thus 
kept u]3 perforce an interest in the house. Nobody in fact was 
paid. Not the blacksmith who opened the lock, nor the glaziei 



THE SUBJECT CONTINUED. 411 

who mended the pane, nor the jobber who let the carriage, nor the 
groom who drove it, nor the butcher who provided the leg of 
mutton, nor the coals which roasted it, nor the cook who basted it, 
nor the servants who ate it ; and this I am given to understand 
is not unfrequently the way in which people live elegantly on 
nothing a year. 

In a little town such things can not be done without remark. We 
know there the quantity of milk our neighbor takes, and espy the 
joint or the fowls which are going in for his dinner. So, probably, 
200 and 202 in Curzon Street might know what was going on in 
the house between them, the servants communicating through the 
area-railings ; but Crawley and his wife and his friends did not 
know 200 and 202. When you came to 201 there was a hearty 
welcome, a kind smile, a good dinner, and a jolly shake of the 
hand from the host and hostess there, just for all the world as if 
they had been undisputed masters of three or four thousand a year ; 
and so they were, not in money, but in produce and labor ; if they 
did not pay for the mutton, they had it ; if they did not give 
bullion in exchange for their wine, how should we know ? Never 
was better claret at any man's table than at honest Rawdon's — 
dinners more gay and neatly served. His drawing-rooms were the 
prettiest, little, modest salons conceivable ; they were decorated 
with the greatest taste and a thousand knick-knacks from Paris, 
by Rebecca ; and when she sat at her piano trilling songs, with a 
lightsome heart, the stranger voted himself in a little Paradise of 
domestic comfort, and agreed that, if the husband was rather 
stupid, the wife was charming, and the dinners the pleasantest in 
the world. 

Rebecca's wit, cleverness, and flippancy made her speedily the 
vogue in London among a certain class. You saw demure chariots 
at her door, out of which stepped very great people. You beheld 
her carriage in the Park, surrounded by dandies of note. The little 
box in the third tier of the Opera was crowded with heads con- 
stantly changing ; but it mus|; be confessed that the ladies held 
aloof from her, and that their doors were shut to our little adven- 
turer. 

With regard to the world of female fashion and its customs, the 
present writer, of course, can only speak at second-hand. A man 
can no more penetrate or understand those mysteries than he can 
know what the ladies talk about when they go up stairs after din- 
ner. It is only by inquiry and perseverance that one sometimes 
gets hints of those secrets ; and by a similar diligence every person 
who treads the Pall Mall pavement and frequents the clubs of this 
metropolis knows, either through his own experience or through 
some acquaintance with whom he plays at billiards or shares the 



412 VANITY FAIR, 

joint, something about the genteel world of London, and how, as 
there are men (such as Rawdon Crawley, whose position we men- 
tioned before) who cut a good figure to the eyes of the ignorant 
world and to the apprentices in the Park, who behold them con- 
sorting with the most notorious dandies there, so there are ladies, 
who may be called men's women, being welcomed entirely by all 
the gentlemen, and cut or slighted by all their wives. Mrs. Fire- 
brace is of this sort — the lady with the beautiful fair ringlets whom 
you see every day in Hyde Park, surrounded by the greatest and 
most famous dandies of this empire. Mrs. Rockwood is another, 
whose parties are announced laboriously in the fashionable news- 
papers, and with whom you see that all sorts of ambassadors and 
great noblemen dine ; and many more might be mentioned had they 
to do with the history at present in hand. But while simple folks 
who are out of the world, or country people with a taste for the 
genteel, behold these ladies in their seeming glory in public places, 
or envy them from afar off, persons who are better instructed could 
inform them that these envied ladies have no more chance of es- 
tablishing themselves in " society " than the benighted squire's wife 
in Somersetshire who reads of their doings in the Morning Post. 
Men living about London are aware of these awful truths. 
You hear how pitilessly many ladies of seeming rank and wealth 
are excluded from this " society." The frantic efforts which they 
make to enter this circle, the meanness to which they submit, the 
insults which they undergo, are matters of wonder to those who 
take human or woman kind for a study ; and the pursuit of fashion 
under difficulties would be a fine theme for any very great person 
who had the wit, the leisure, and the knowledge of the English lan- 
guage necessary for the compiling of such a history. 

Now, the few female acquaintances whom Mrs. Crawley had 
known abroad not only declined to visit her when she came to this 
side of the Channel, but cut her severely when they met in public 
places. It was curious to see how the great ladies forgot her, and 
no doubt not altogether a pleasant study to Rebecca. When 
Lady Bareacres met her in the waiting-room at the Opera, she 
gathered her daughters about her as if they would be contaminated 
by a touch of Becky, and retreating a step or two, placed herself in 
front of them, and stared at her little enemy. To stare Becky out 
of countenance required a severer glance than even the frigid old 
Bareacres could shoot out of her dismal eyes. When Lady de la 
Mole, who had ridden a score of times by Becky's side at Brussels, 
met Mrs. Crawley's open carriage in Hyde Park, her ladyship was 
quite blind, and could not in the least recognize her former friend. 
Even Mrs. Blenkinsop, the banker's wife, cut her at church. 
Becky went regularly to church now ; it was edifying to see het 



THE SUBJECT CONTINUED. 413 

enter there with Rawdon by her side, carrying a couple of large gilt 
prayer-books, and afterward going through the ceremony with the 
greatest resignation. 

Rawdon at first felt very acutely the slights which were passed 
upon his wife, and was inclined to be gloomy and savage. He 
talked of calling out the husbands or brothers of every one of the 
insolent women who did not pay a proper respect to his wife ; and 
it was only by the strongest commands and entreaties on her part 
that he was brought into keeping a decent behavior. " You can't 
shoot me into society," she said, good-naturedly. " Remember, my 
dear, that I was but a governess, and you, you poor silly old man, 
have the worst reputation for debt, and dice, and all sorts of wick- 
edness. We shall get quite as many friends as we want by and 
by, and in the mean while you must be a good boy, and obey your 
schoolmistress in everything she tells you to do. When we heard 
that your aunt had left almost everything to Pitt and his wife, do 
you remember what a rage you were in ? You would have told all 
Paris, if I had not made you keep your temper, and where would 
you have been now ? — in prison at Ste. Pelagic for debt, and not 
established in London in a handsome house, with every comfort 
about you — you were in such a fury you were ready to murder 
your brother, you wicked Cain you, and what good would have 
come of remaining angry ? All the rage in the world won't get us 
your aunt's money ; and it is much better that we should be friends 
with your brother's family than enemies, as those foolish Butes are. 
When your father dies, Queen's Crawley will be a pleasant house 
for you and me to pass the winter in. If we are ruined, you can 
carve and take charge of the stable, and I can be a governess to 
Lady Jane's children. Ruined ! fiddlesticks ! I will get you a 
good place before that ; or Pitt and his little boy will die, and we 
will be Sir Rawdon and my lady. While there is life, there is hope, 
my dear, and I intend to make a man of you yet. Who sold your 
horses for you ? Who paid your debts for you ? " Rawdon was 
obliged to confess that he owed all these benefits to his wife, and 
to trust himself to her guidance for the future. 

Indeed, when Miss Crawley quitted the world, and that money 
for which all her relatives had been fighting so eagerly was finally 
left to Pitt, Bute Crawley, who found that only five thousand pounds 
had been left to him instead of the twenty upon which he calculated, 
was in such a fury at his disappointment, that he vented it in sav- 
age abuse upon his nephew ; and the quarrel always rankling 
between them ended in an utter breach of intercourse. Rawdon 
Crawley's conduct, on the other hand, who got but a hundred 
pounds, was such as to astonish his brother and delight his sister- 
in-law, who was disposed to look kindly upon all the members of 



414 P^ANITY FAIR. 

her husband's family. He wrote to his brother a very frank, manly, 
good-humored letter from Paris. He was aware, he said, that by 
his own marriage he had forfeited his aunt's favor ; and though he 
did not disguise his disappointment that she should have been so 
entirely relentless toward him, he was glad that the money was still 
kept in their branch of the family, and heartily congratulated his 
brother on his good fortune. He sent his affectionate remem- 
brances to his sister, and hoped to have her good-will for Mrs. Raw- 
don ; and the letter concluded with a postscript to Pitt in the latter 
lady's own handwriting. She, too, begged to join in her husband's 
congratulations. She should ever remember Mr. Crawley's kind- 
ness to her in early days when she was a friendless orphan, the in- 
structress of his little sisters, in whose welfare she still took the 
tenderest interest. She wished him every happiness in his married 
life, and, asking his permission to offer her remembrances to Lady 
Jane (of whose goodness all the world informed her), she hoped 
that one day she might be allowed to present her little boy to his 
uncle and aunt, and begged to bespeak him for their good-will 
and protection. 

Pitt Crawley received this communication very graciously — more 
graciously than Miss Crawley had received some of Rebecca's 
previous compositions in Rawdon's handwriting ; and as for Lady 
Jane, she was so charmed with the letter, that she expected her 
husband would instantly divide his aunt's legacy into two equal 
portions, and send off one half to his brother at Paris. 

To her ladyship's surprise, however, Pitt declined to accommo- 
date his brother with a check for thirty thousand pounds. But he 
made Rawdon a handsome offer of his hand whenever the latter 
should come to England and choose to take it: and, thanking 
Mrs. Crawley for her good opinion of himself and Lady Jane, he 
graciously pronounced his willingness to take any opportunity to 
serve her little boy. 

Thus an almost reconciliation was brought about between the 
brothers. When Rebecca came to town Pitt and his wife were 
not in London. Many a time she drove by the old door in Park 
Lane to see whether they had taken possession of Miss Crawley's 
house there. But the new family did not make its appearance : it 
was only through Raggles that she heard of their movements — how 
Miss Crawley's domestics had been dismissed with decent^ gratui- 
ties, and how Mr. Pitt had only once made his appearance in Lon- 
don, when he stopped for a few days at the house, did business 
with his lawyers there, and sold off all Miss Crawley's French 
novels to a bookseller out of Bond Street. Becky had reasons of 
her own which caused her to long for the arrival of her new relation. 
"When Lady Jane comes," thought she, " she shall be my sponsor 



THE SUBJECT CONTINUED. 415 

in London society , and as for the women ! bah ! the women 
will ask me when they find the men want to see me." 

An article as necessary to a lady in this position as her broug- 
ham or her boquet, is her companion. I have always admired the 
way in which the tender creatures, who can not exist without sym- 
pathy, hire an exceedingly plain friend of their own sex from whom 
they are almost inseparable. The sight of that inevitable woman 
in her faded gown seated behind her dear friend in the opera-box, 
or occupying the back seat of the barouche, is always a wholesome 
and moral one to me, as jolly a reminder as that of the Death's- 
head which figured in the repasts of Egyptian bon-vivanfs, a strange 
sardonic memorial of Vanity Fair. What ? — even battered, brazen, 
beautiful, conscienceless, heartless Mrs. Firebrace, whose father 
died of her shame ; even lovely, daring Mrs. Mantrap, who will 
ride at any fence which any man in England will take, and who 
drives her grays in the Park, while her mother keeps a huckster's 
stall in Bath still — even those who are so bold, one might fancy 
they could face anything, dare not face the world without a female 
friend. They must have somebody to cling to, the affectionate 
creatures ! And you will hardly see them in any public place with- 
out a shabby companion in a dyed silk, sitting somewhere in the 
shade close behind them. 

" Rawdon," said Becky, very late one night, as a party of gentle- 
men were seated round her crackling drawing-room fire (for the 
men came to her house to finish the night ; and she had ice and 
coffee for them, the best in London) : " I must have a sheep-dog." 

" A what ? " said Rawdon, looking up from an icarte table. 

" A sheep-dog ! " said young Lord Southdown. " My dear Mrs. 
Crawley, what a fancy ! Why not have a Danish dog } I know 
of one as big as a camel-leopard, by Jove. It would almost pull 
your brougham. Or a Persian greyhound, eh ? (I propose, if you 
please) ; or a little pug that would go into one of Lord Steyne's 
snuff-boxes ? There's a man at Bayswater got one with such a 
nose that you might — I mark the king and play — that you might 
hang your hat on it." 

" I mark the trick," Rawdon gravely said. He attended to his 
game commonly, and didn't much meddle with the conversation 
except when it was about horses and betting. 

" What can you want with a shepherd's dog ? " the lively little 
Southdown continued. 

" I mean a moral shepherd's dog," said Becky, laughing, and 
looking up at Lord Steyne, 

" What the devil's that ? " said his lordship. 

" A dog to keep the wolves off me," Rebecca continued. " A 
companion." 



4l6 VANITY FAIR. 

" Dear little innocent lamb, you want one," said the marquis; 
and his jaw thrust out, and he began to grin hideously, his little 
eyes leering toward Rebecca. 

The great Lord of Steyne was standing by the fire sipping coffee. 
The fire crackled and blazed pleasantly. There was a score of 
candles sparkling round the mantle-piece, in all sorts of quaint 
sconces, of gilt and bronze and porcelain. They lighted up Rebec- 
ca's figure to admiration, as she sat on a sofa covered with a pat- 
tern of gaudy flowers. She was in a pink dress, that looked as 
fresh as a rose ; her dazzling white arms and shoulders were half- 
covered with a thin hazy scarf through which they sparkled ; her 
hair hung in curls round her neck ; one of her little feet peeped 
out of from the fresh crisp folds of the silk ; the prettiest little foot 
in the prettiest little sandal in the finest silk stocking in the world. 

The candles lighted up Lord Steyne's shining bald head, which 
was fringed with red hair. He had thick bushy eyebrows, with 
little twinkling bloodshot eyes, surrounded by a thousand wrinkles. 
His jaw was underhung, and when he laughed, two white buck- 
teeth protruded themselves and glistened savagely in the midst of 
the grin. He had been dining with ro3'al personages, and wore his 
garter and ribbon. A short man was his lordship, broad-chested, 
and bo\v-legged, but proud of the fineness of his foot and ankle, 
and always caressing his garter-knee. 

" And so the Shepherd is not enough," said he, "to defend his 
lambkin ? " 

" The Shepherd is too fond of playing at cards and going to his 
clubs," answ^ered Becky, laughing. 

" 'Gad, what a debauched Corydon ! " said my lord — " what a 
mouth for a pipe ! " 

" I take your three to two," here said Rawdon, at the card-table. 

" Hark at Meliboeus," snarled the noble marquis ; " he's pasto- 
rally occupied too : he's shearing a Southdown. What an innocent 
mutton, hey ? Damme, what a snowy fleece ! " 

Rebecca's eyes shot out gleams of scornful humor. " My lord," 
she said, " you are a knight of the order." He had the collar round 
his neck, indeed — a gift of the restored Princes of Spain. 

Lord Steyne in early life had been notorious for his daring and 
his success at play. He had sat up two days and two nights with 
Mr. Fox at hazard. He had won money of the most august per- 
onages of the realm : he had won his marquisate, it was said, at the 
gaming-table, but he did not like an allusion to those hygono. fredaines, 
Rebecca saw the scowl gathering over his heavy brow. 

She rose up from her sofa, and went and took his coffee-cup out 
of his hand with a little curtsey. " Yes," she said, " I must get a 
M'atch-dog. But he won't bark at you.''^ And, going into the other 



THE SUBJECT CONTINUED.. 417 

drawing-room, she sat down to the piano, and began to sing little 
French songs in such a charming, thrilHng voice, that the mollified 
nobleman speedily followed her into that chamber, and might be 
seen nodding his head and bowing time over her. 

Rawdon and his friend meanwhile played ecartk until they had 
enough. The colonel won ; but, say that he won ever so much and 
often, nights like these, which occurred many times in the w^eek — 
his wife having all the talk and all the admiration, and he sitting 
silent without the circle, not comprehending a word of the jokes, 
the allusions, the mystical language within — must have been rather 
wearisome to the ex-dragoon. 

" How is Mrs. Crawley's husband ? " Lord Steyne used to say 
to him by way of a good-day when they met ; and indeed that was 
now his avocation in life. He was Colonel Crawley no more. He 
was Mrs. Crawley's husband. 

About the little Rawdon, if nothing has been said all this while, 
it is because he is hidden up stairs in a garret somewhere, or has 
crawled below into the kitchen for companionship. His mother 
scarcely ever took notice of him. He passed the days with his 
French bonne as long as that domestic remained in Mr. Crawley's 
family, and when the Frenchwoman went away, the little fellow, 
howling in the loneliness of the night, had compassion taken on 
him by a housemaid, who took him out of his solitary nursery into 
her bed in the garret hard by, and comforted him. 

Rebecca, my Lord Steyne, and one or two more were in the 
drawing-room taking tea after the opera, when his shouting was 
heard overhead. *' It's my cherub crying for his nurse," she said. 
She did not offer to move to go and see the child. " Don't agitate 
your feelings by going to look for him," said Lord Steyne sardon- 
ically. " Bah ! " replied the other, with a sort of blush, " he'll cry 
himself to sleep ; " and they fell to talking about the opera. 

Rawdon had stolen off, though, to look after his son and heir ; 
and came back to the company when he found that honest Dolly 
was consoling the child. The colonel's dressing-room was in those 
upper regions. He used to see the boy there in private. They had 
interviews together every morning when he shaved ; Rawdon minor 
sitting on a box by his father's side and watching the operation 
with never-ceasing pleasure. He and the sire were great friends. 
The father would bring him sweetmeats from the dessert, and hide 
them in a certain old epaulet box, where the child went to seek 
them, and laughed with joy on discovering the treasure ; laughed, 
but not too loud : for mamma was below asleep and must not be 
disturbed. She did not go to rest till very late, and seldom rose 
till after noon. 
27 



4i8 VANITY FAIR. 

Rawdon bought the boy plenty of picture-books, and crammed 
his nursery with toys. Its walls were covered with pictures pasted 
up by the father's own hand, and purchased by him for ready 
money. When he was off duty with Mrs. Rawdon in the park, he 
would sit up here, passing hours with the boy ; who rode on his 
chest, who pulled his great mustachios as if they were driving-reins, 
and spend days with him ^ udefatigable gambols. The room 
was a low room, and once, when the child was not five years old, 
his father, who was tossing him wildly up in his arms, hit the poor 
little chap's skull so violently against the ceiling that he almost 
dropped the child, so terrified was he at the disaster. 

Rawdon minor had made up his face for a tremendous howl — 
the severity of the blow indeed authorized that indulgence ; but 
just as he was going to begin, the father interposed. 

" For God's sake, Rawdy, don't wake mamma," he cried. And 
the child, looking in a very hard and piteous way at his father, bit 
his lips, clinched his hands, and didn't cry a bit. Rawdon told 
that story at the clubs, at the mess, to everybody in town. " By 
Gad, sir," he explained to the public in general, " what a good 
plucked one that boy of mine is — what a trump he is ! I half sent 
his head through the ceiling, by Gad, and he wouldn't cry for fear 
of disturbing his mother." 

Sometimes — once or twice in a week — that lady visited the upper 
regions in which the child lived. She came like a vivified figure 
out of the Magazin des Modes — blandly smiling in the most beauti- 
ful new clothes and little gloves and boots. Wonderful scarfs, 
laces, and jewels glittered about her. She had always a new bon- 
net on : and flowers bloomed perpetually in it : or else magnificent 
curling ostrich feathers, soft and snowy as camellias. She nodded 
twice or thrice patronizingly to the little boy, who looked up from 
his dinner or from the pictures of soldiers he was painting. When 
she left the room, an odor of rose, or some other magical fragrance, 
lingered about the nursery. She was an unearthly being in his 
eyes, superior to his father— to all the world : to be worshiped and 
admired at a distance. To drive with that lady in the carriage was 
an awful rite : he sat up in the back seat, and did not dare to speak : 
he gazed with all his eyes at the beautifully dressed princess opposite 
to him. Gentlemen on splendid prancing horses came up, and 
smiled and talked with her. How her eyes beamed upon all of 
them ! Her hand used to quiver and wave gracefully as they passed. 
When he went out with her he had his new red dress on. His old 
brown hoUand was good enough when he stayed at home. Some- 
times, when she was away, and Dolly his maid was making his bed, 
he came into his mother's room. It was as the abode of a fairy to 
him — a mystic chamber of splendor and delights. There in the 



THE SUBJECT CONTINUED. 419 

wardrobe hung those wonderful robes — pink and blue, and many 
tinted. There was the jewel-case, silver-clasped : and the won- 
drous bronze hand on the dressing-table, glistening all over with a 
hundred rings. There was the cheval-glass, that miracle of art, in 
which he could just see his own wondering head, and the reflection 
of Dolly (queerly distorted, and as if up in the ceiling), plumping 
and patting the pillows of the bed. Oh, thou poor lonely little 
benighted boy ! Mother is the name for God in the lips and hearts 
of little children ; and here was one .who was worshiping a stone ! 

Now Rawdon Crawley, rascal as the colonel was, had certain 
manly tendencies of affection in his heart, and could love a child 
and a v;oman still. For Rawdon minor he had a great secret 
tenderness then, which did not escape Rebecca, though she did not 
talk about it to her husband. It did not annoy her : she was too 
good-natured. It only increased her scorn for him. He felt 
somehow ashamed of this paternal softness, and hid it from his 
wife — only indulging in it when alone with the boy. 

He used to take him out of mornings when they would go to the 
stables together and to the park. Little Lord Southdown, the 
best-natured of men, who would make you a present of the hat from 
his head, and Avhose main occupation in life was to buy knick- 
knacks that he might give them away afterward, bought the little 
chap a pony not much bigger than a large rat, the donor said, and 
on this little black Shetland pigmy young Rawdon's great father 
was pleased to mount the boy, and to walk by his side in the park. 
It pleased him to see his old quarters, and his old fellow-guardsmen 
at Knightsb ridge : he had begun to think of his bachelorhood with 
something like regret. The old troopers were glad to recognize 
their ancient officer, and dandle the little colonel. Colonel Craw- 
ley found dining at mess and with his brother- officers very pleasant. 
" Hang it, I ain't clever enough for her — I know it. She won't 
miss me," he used to say ; and he was right, his wife did not miss 
him. 

Rebecca was fond of her husband. She was always perfectly 
good-humored and kind to him. She did not even show her scorn 
much for him ; perhaps she liked him the better for being a fool. 
He was her upper servant and maitre d: hotel. He went on her er- 
rands ; obeyed her orders without question ; drove in the carriage 
in the ring with her without repining ; took her to the opera-box ; 
solaced himself at his club during the performance, and came 
punctually back to fetch her when due. He would have liked her 
to be a little fonder of the boy : but even to that he reconciled him- 
self. " Hang it, you know she's so clever," he said, " and I'm not 
literary and that, you know." For, as we have said before, it re 



420 VANITY FAIR. 

quires no great wisdom to be able to win at cards and billiards, and 
Rawdon made no pretensions to any other sort of skill. 

When the companion came, his domestic duties became very 
light. His wife encouraged him to dine abroad : she would let him 
off duty at the opera. " Don't stay and stupefy yourself at home 
to-night, my dear," she would say. " Some men are coming who 
will only bore you. I would not ask them, but you know it's for 
your good, and now I have a sheep-dog, I need not be afraid to 
be alone." 

. " A sheep-dog — a companion ! Becky Sharp with a companion ! 
Isn't it good fun ? " thought Mrs. Crawley to herself. The notion 
tickled hugely her sense of humor. 

One Sunday morning, as Rawdon Crawley, his little son, and the 
pony were taking their accustomed walk in the park, they passed 
by an old acquaintance of the colonel's. Corporal Clink, of the 
regiment, who was in conversation with a friend, an old gentleman, 
who held a boy in his arms about the age of little Rawdon. This 
other youngster had seized hold of the Waterloo medal which the 
corporal wore, and was examining it with delight. 

" Good-morning, your honor," said Clink, in reply to the " How 
do, Clink ? " of the colonel. " This ere young gentleman is about 
the little colonel's age, sir," continued the corporal. 

" His father was a Waterloo man, too," said the old gentleman, 
who carried the boy. " Wasn't he, Georgy ? " 

" Yes," said Georg>'. He and the little chap on the pony were 
looking at each other with all their might — solemnly scanning each 
other as children do. 

" In a line regiment," Clink said, with a patronizing air. 

" He was a captain in the — th regiment," said the old gentleman 
rather pompously. " Captain George Osborne, sir — perhaps you 
knew him. He died the death of a hero, sir, fighting against the 
Corsican tyrant." 

Colonel Crawley blushed quite red. " I knew him very well, 
sir," he said ; " and his wife, his dear little wife, sir — how is she ? " 

*' She is my daughter, sir," said the old gentleman, putting down 
the boy, and taking out a card with great solemnity, which he 
handed to the colonel. On it was written — 

" Mr. Sedley, Sole Agent for the Black Diamond and Anti-Cin- 
der Coal Association, Bunker's wharf, Thames Street, and Anna- 
Maria Cottages, Fulham Road West." 

Little Georgy went up and looked at the Shetland pony. 

" Should you like to have a ride ? " said Rawdon minor from the 
saddle. 

" Yes," said Georgy. The colonel, who had been looking at him 



422 VANITY FAIR, 

with some interest, took up the child and put him on the pony 
behind Rawdon minor. 

" Take hold of him, Georgy," he said — " take my little boy- 
round the waist — his name is Rawdon." And both the children, 
began to laugh. 

" You won't see a prettier pair, I think, this summer's day, sir," 
said the good-natured corporal ; and the colonel, the corporal, and 
old Mr. Sediey with his umbrella, walked by the side of the chil- 
dren- 



I 



A FAMILY IK A VERY SMALL WAY 



423 



CHAPTER XXXVIII. 




A FAMILY IN A VERY SMALL WAY. 

— — ^^-r-^^^^-^ E must suppose little George 

- ' '-'-^' Osborne has ridden from 
Knightsbridge toward Ful- 
ham, and will stop and make 
inquiries at that village re- 
garding some friends whom 
we have left there. How is 
Mrs. Amelia after the storm 
of Waterloo ? Is she living 
and thriving ? What has 
come of Major Dobbin, 
whose cab was always hank- 
ering about her premises? 
and are there any news of the 
collector of Boggley Wollah ? 
The facts concerning the 
latter are briefly these : 
Our worthy fat friend Joseph Sedley returned to India not long 
after his escape from Brussels. Either his furlough was up, or he 
dreaded to meet any witnesses of his Waterloo flight. However it 
might be, he went back to his duties in Bengal very soon after 
Napoleon had taken up his residence at St. Helena, where Jos saw 
the ex-emperor. To hear Mr. Sedley talk on board ship you would 
have supposed that it was not the first time he and the Corsican 
had met, and that the civilian had bearded the French general at 
Mount St. John. He had a thousand anecdotes about the famous 
battles ; he knew the position of every regiment, and the loss which 
each had incurred. He did not deny that he had been concerned 
in those victories — that he had been with the army, and carried 
dispatches for the Duke of Wellington. And he described what 
the duke did and said on every conceivable moment of the day 
of Waterloo, with such an accurate knowledge of his grace's senti- 
ments and proceedings, that it was clear he must have been by 
the conqueror's side throughout the day : though, as a non-combat- 
ant, his name was not mentioned in the public documents relative 
to the battle. Perhaps he actually worked himself up to believe 
that he had been engaged with the army ; certain it is that he made 



424 VANITY FAIR. 

a prodigious sensation for some time at Calcutta, and was called 
Waterloo Sedley during the whole of his subsequent stay in Bengal. 

The bills which Jos had given for the purchase of those unlucky 
horses were paid without question by him and his agents. He never 
was heard to allude to the bargain^ and noboby knows for a cer- 
tainty what became of the horses, or how he got rid of them, or of 
Isidor, his Belgian servant, who sold a gray horse, very like the 
one which Jos rode, at Valenciennes some time during the autumn 
of 1815. 

Jos's London agents had orders to pay one hundred and twenty 
pounds yearly to his parents at Fulham. It was the chief support 
of the old couple ; for Mr. Sedley's speculations in life subsequent 
to his bankruptcy did not by any means retrieve the broken old 
gentleman's fortune. He tried to be a wine-merchant, a coal- 
merchant, a commission lottery agent, etc., etc. He sent round 
prospectuses to his friends whenever he took a new trade, and or- 
dered a new brass plate for the door, and talked pompously about 
making his fortune still. But Fortune never came back to the 
feeble and stricken old man. One by one his friends dropped off, 
and were weary of buying dear coals and bad wine from him ; and 
there was only his wife in all the world who fancied, when he tot- 
tered off to the city of a morning, that he was still doing any busi- 
ness there. At evening he crawled slowly back ; and he used to go 
of nights to a little club at a tavern, where he disposed of the finances 
of the nation. It was wonderful to hear him talk about millions, 
and agios, and discounts, and what Rothschild was doing, and Baring 
Brothers. He talked of such vast sums that the gentlemen of the 
club (the apothecary, the undertaker, the great carpenter and builder 
the parish clerk, who was allowed to come stealthily, and Mr. Clapp, 
our old acquaintance), respected the old gentleman. 

" I was better off once, sir," he did not fail to tell everybody who 
"used the room." 

" My son, sir, is at this minute chief magistrate of Ramgunge, in 
the Presidency of Bengal, and touching his four thousand rupees/^r 
mensem. My daughter might be a colonel's lady if she liked. I 
might draw upon my son, the first magistrate, sir, for two thou- 
sand pounds to-morrow, and Alexander would cash my bill down, 
on the counter, sir. But the Sedleys were always a proud family." 
You and I, my dear reader, may drop into this condition one day ; for 
have not many of our friends attained it .'' Our luck may fail ; our 
powers forsake us : our place on the boards be taken by better and 
younger mimes — the chance of life roll away and leave us shattered 
and stranded. Then men will walk across the road when they 
meet you — or, worse still, hold you out a couple of fingers and pa- 
tronize you in a pitying way — then you will knov/, as soon as your 



A FAMILY IN A SMALL WAY. 425 

back is turned, that your friend begins with a " Poor devil, what 
imprudences he has committed, what chances that chap has thrown 
away ! " jWell, well — a carriage and three thousand a year is not the 
summit of the reward nor the end of God's judgment of men. If 
quacks prosper as often as they go to the wall — if zanies succeed 
and knaves arrive at fortunes, and, vice versa, sharing ill luck and 
prosperity for all the world like the ablest and most honest among 
us — I say, brother, the gifts and pleasures of Vanity Fair cannot be 
held of any great account, and that it is probable .... but we 
are wandering out of the domain of the story. / 

Had Mrs. Sedley been a woman of energy, sne would have ex- 
erted it after her husband's ruin, and, occupying a large house, woul^ 
have taken in boarders. The broken Sedley would have acted well 
as the boarding-house landlady's husband ; the Munoz of private 
life ; the titular lord and master ; the carver, house-steward, and 
humble husband of the occupier of the dingy throne. I have seen 
men of good brains and breeding, and of good hopes and vigor 
once, who feasted squires and kept hunters in their youth, meekly 
cutting up legs of mutton for rancorous old harridans, and pretend- 
ing to preside over their dreary tables — but Mrs. Sedley, we say, 
had not spirit enough to bustle about for " a few select inmates to 
join a cheerful musical family," such as one reads of in the Times. 
She was content to lie on the shore where fortune had stranded her 
— and you could see that the career of this old couple was over. 

I don't think they were unhappy. Perhaps they were a little 
prouder in their downfall than in their prosperity. Mrs. Sedley 
was always a great person for her landlady, Mrs. Clapp, when she 
descended and passed many hours with her in the basement or 
ornamented kitchen. The Irish maid Betty Flanagan's bonnets and 
ribbons, her sauciness, her idleness, her reckless prodigalit3r of 
kitchen candles, her consumption of tea and sugar, and so forth, 
occupied and amused the old lady almost as much as the doings of 
her former household, when she had Sambo and the coachman, 
and a groom, and a footboy, and a housekeeper with a regiment of 
female domestics — her former household, about which the good 
lady talked a hundred times a day. And besides Betty Flanagan, 
Mrs. Sedley had all the maids-of-all-work in the street to superin- 
tend. She knew how each tenant of the cottages paid or owed 
his little rent. She stepped aside when Mrs. Rougemont the ac- 
tress passed with her dubious family. She flung up her head when 
Mrs. Pestler, the apothecary's lady, drove by in her husband's pro- 
fessional one-horse chaise. She had colloquies wdth the green grocer 
about the pennorth of turnips which Mr. Sedley loved , she kept an 
eye upon the milkman, and the baker's boy; and made visitations 
to the butcher, who sold hundreds of oxen very likely with less ado 



426 VANITY FAIR, 

than was made about Mrs, Sedley's loin of mutton ; and she count- 
ed the potatoes under the joint on Sundays, on which days, drest 
in her best, she went to church twice, and read Blair's Sermons in 
the evening. 

On that day, " business " prevented him on week days from tak- 
ing such a pleasure, it was old Sedley's delight to take out his little 
grandson Georgy to the neighboring parks or Kensington Gardens, 
to see the soldiers or to feed the ducks. Georgy loved the red-coats 
and his grandpapa told him how his father had been a famous sol- 
dier, and introduced him to many sergeants and others with Water- 
loo medals on their breasts, to whom the old grandfather pomp- 
ously presented the child as the son of Captain Osborne of the 
— th, who died gloriously on the glorious eighteenth. He has been 
known to treat some of these non-commissioned gentlemen to a 
glass of porter, and, indeed, in their first Sunday walks was dis- 
posed to spoil little Georgy, sadly gorging the boy with apples 
and parliament, to the detriment of his health — until Amelia declared 
that George should never go out with grandpapa, unless the latter 
promised solemnly, and on his honor, not to give the child any 
cakes, lollipops, or stall produce whatever. 

Between Mrs. Sedley and her daughter there was a sort of cool- 
ness about this boy, and a secret jealousy — for one evening in 
George's very early days, Ameha, who had been seated at work in 
their little parlor scarcely remarking that the old lady had quitted 
the room, ran up stairs instinctively to the nursery at the cries of 
the child, who had been asleep until that moment — and there found 
Mrs. Sedley in the act of surreptitiously administering Daffy's 
Elixir to the infant. Amelia, the gentlest and sweetest of every- 
day mortals, when she found this meddling with her maternal au- 
thority, thrilled and trembled all over with anger. Her cheeks, 
ordinarily pale, now flushed up, until they were as red as they used 
to be when she was a child of twelve years old. She seized the 
baby out of her mother's arms, and then grasped at the bottle, leav- 
ing the old lady gaping at her, furious, and holding the guilty tea- 
spoon. 

Amelia flung the bottle crashing into the fire-place. " I will not 
have baby poisoned, mamma," cried Emmy, rocking the infant 
about violently with both her arms round him, and turning with 
flashing eyes at her mother. 

" Poisoned, Amelia 1 " said the old lady ; " this language to 
me?'* 

" He shall not have any medicine but that which Mr. Pestler 
sends for him. He told me that Daffy's Elixir was poison." 

" Very good : you think I'm a murderess, then," replied Mrs. 
Sedley. This is the language you use to your mother. I have 



A FAMILY IN A SMALL WA Y. 



427 



met with misfortunes ; I have sunk low in life ; I have kept my 
carriage, and now walk on foot ; but I did not know I was a mur- 
deress before, and thank you for the news'^ 

"Mamma," said the poor girl, who was always ready or tears^ 
" you shouldn't be hard upon me. I — I didn't mean — I mean I 
did not wish to say you would do any wrong to this dear child ; 
only—" 

" Oh, no, my love — only that I was a murderess ; in which case, 
I had better go to 
the Old Bailey. 
Though I didn't 
poison you when 
you were a child, 
but gave you the 
best of education, 
and the most ex- 
pensive masters 
money could pro- 
cure. Yes ; I've 
nursed five chil- 
dren and buried 
three ; and the 
one I loved the 
best of all, and 
tended through 
croup, and teeth- 
ing, and measles, 
and hooping- 
cough, and 
brought up with 
foreign masters, 
regardless of ex- 
pense, and with ^ 

accomplishments at Minerva House — which I never had when I 
was a girl — when I was too glad to honor my father and mother, 
that I might live long in the land, and to be useful, and not to 
mope all day in my room and act the fine lady — says I'm a mur- 
deress. Ah, Mrs. Osborne ! may you never nourish a viper in 
your bosom, that's my prayer." 

" Mamma, mamma ! " cried the bewildered girl : and the child 
in her arms set up a frantic chorus of shouts. 

" A murderess indeed ! Go down on your knees and pray to 
God to cleanse your wicked ungrateful heart, Amelia, and may He 
forgive you as I do ; " and Mrs. Sedley tossed out of the room. 




428 VANITY FAIR, 

hissing out the word poison once more, and so ending her charita- 
ble benediction. 

Till the termination of her natural life, this breach between 
Mrs. Sedley and her daughter was never thoroughly mended. The 
quarrel gave the elder lady numberless advantages which she did 
not fail to turn to account with female ingenuity and perseverance. 
For instance, she scarcely spoke to Amelia for many weeks after- 
ward. She warned the domestics not to touch the child, as Mrs. 
Osborne might be offended. She asked her daughter to see and 
satisfy herself that there was no poison prepared in the little daily 
messes that were concocted for Georgy. When neighbors asked 
after the boy's health, she referred them pointedly to Mrs. 
Osborne. She never ventured to ask whether the baby was well 
or not. She would not touch the child although he was her grand- 
son, and own precious darling, for she was not used to children, 
and might kill it. And whenever Mr. Pestler came upon his heal- 
ing inquisition, she received the doctor with such a sarcastic and 
scornful demeanor, as made the surgeon declare that not Lady 
Thistlewood herself, whom he had the honor of attending profes- 
sionally, could give herself greater airs than old Mrs. Sedley, from 
whom he never took a fee. And very likely Emmy was jealous 
too, upon her own part, as what mother is not, of those who would 
manage her children for her, or become candidates for the first 
place in their affections ? It is certain that when anybody nursed 
the child, she was uneasy, and that she would no more allow Mrs. 
Clapp or the domestic to dress or tend him, than she would have 
let them wash her husband's miniature which hung up over her lit- 
tle bed ; — the same little bed from which the poor girl had gone 
to his ; and to which she retired now for many long, silent, tearful 
but happy years. 

In this room was all Amelia's heart and treasure. Here it was 
that she tended her boy, and watched him through the many ills 
of childhood, with a constant passion of love. The elder George 
returned in him somehow, only improved, and as if come back 
from heaven. In a hundred little tones, looks, and movements, 
the child was so like his father, that the widow's heart thrilled as 
she held him to it ; and he would often ask the cause of her tears. 
It was because of his likeness to his father, she did not scruple to 
tell him. She talked constantly to him about this dead father, 
and spoke of her love for George to the innocent and wondering 
child ; much more than she ever had done to George himself, or 
to any confidant of her youth. To her parents she never talked 
about this matter ; shrinking from baring her heart to them. Little 
George very likely could understand no better than they ; but into 
his ears she poured her sentimental secrets unreservedly, and into 



A FAMIL Y IN A SMALL WA K 429 

his only. The very joy of this woman was a sort of grief, or so 
tender, at least, that its expression was tears. Her sensibilities 
were so weak and tremulous that perhaps they ought not to be 
talked about in a book. I was told by Dr. Pestler (now a most 
flourishing lady's physician, with a sumptuous dark-green carriage, 
a prospect of speedy knighthood, and a house in Manchester 
Square), that her grief at weaning the child was a sight that would 
have unmanned a Herod. He was very soft-hearted many years 
ago, and his wife was mortally jealous of Mrs. Amelia, then and 
long afterward. 

Perhaps the doctor's lady had good reason for her jealousy ; 
most women shared it, of those who formed the small circle of 
Amelia's acquaintance, and were quite angry at the enthusiasm 
with which the other sex regarded her. For almost all men who 
came near her loved her ; though no doubt they would be at a loss 
to tell you why. She was not brilliant, nor witty, nor wise over- 
much, nor extraordinarily handsome. But wherever she went she 
touched and charmed every one of the male sex, as invariably as 
she awakened the scorn and incredulity of her own sisterhood. I 
think it was her weakness which was her principal charm — a kind 
of sweet submission and softness, which seemed to appeal to each 
man she met for his sympathy and protection. We have seen how 
in the regiment, though she spoke but to few of George's comrades 
there, all the swords of the young fellows at the mess-table would 
have leaped from their scabbards to fight round her ; and so it 
was in the little narrow lodging-house and circle at Fulham, she 
interested and pleased everybody. If she had been Mrs. Mango 
herself, of the great house of Mango, Plantain, and Co., Crutched 
Friars, and the magnificent proprietress of the Pineries, Fulham, 
who gave summer dejeuners frequented by dukes and earls, and 
drove about the parish with magnificent yellow liveries and bay 
horses, such as the royal stables at Kensington themselves could 
not turn out — I say had she been Mrs. Mango herself, or her son's 
wife, Lady Mary Mango (daughter of the Earl of Castlemouldy, 
who condescended to marry the head of the firm), the tradesmen 
of the neighborhood could not pay her more honor than they inva- 
riably showed to the gentle young widow, when she passed by 
their doors, or made her humble purchases at their shops. 

Thus it was not only Mr. Pestler, the medical man, but Mr, 
Linton the young assistant, who doctored the servant maids and 
small tradesmen, and might be seen any day reading the Times in 
the surgery, who openly declared himself the slave of Mrs. Os- 
borne. He was a personable young gentleman, more welcome at 
Mrs. Sedley's lodgings than his principal ; and if anything went 
wrong with Georgy, he would drop in twice or thrice in the day, to 



430 VANITY FAIR. 

see the little chap, and without so much as the thought of a tee. 
He would abstract lozenges, tamarinds, and other produce from 
the surgery-drawers for little Georgy's benefit, and compounded 
draughts and mixtures for him of miraculous sweetness, so that it 
was quite a pleasure to the child to be ailing. He and Pestler, 
his chief, sat up two whole nights by the boy in that momentous 
and awful week when Georgy had the measles ; and when you 
would have thought from the mother's terror, that there had never 
been measles in the world before. Would they have done as 
much for other people ? Did they sit up for the folks at the Piner- 
ies, when Ralph Plantagenet, and Gwendoline, and Guinever 
Mango had the same juvenile complaint '*. Did they sit up for 
little Mary Clapp, the landlord's daughter, who actually caught 
the disease of little Georgy ? Truth compels one to say, no. 
They slept quite undisturbed, at least as far as she was concerned 
— pronounced hers to be a slight case, which would almost cure 
itself, sent her in a draught or two, and threw in bark when the 
child rallied, with perfect indifference, and just for form's sake. 

Again, there was the little French chevalier opposite, who gave 
lessons in his native tongue at various schools in the neighbor- 
hood, and who might be heard in his apartment of nights playing 
tremulous old gavottes and minuets on a wheezy old fiddle. 
Whenever this powdered and courteous old man, who never 
missed a Sunday at the convent chapel at Hammersmith, and who 
was in all respects, thoughts, conduct, and bearing, utterly unlike 
the bearded savages of his nation who curse perfidious Albion and 
scowl at you from over their cigars, in the Quadrant arcades at 
the present day — whenever the old Chevalier de Talonrouge spoke 
of Mistress Osborne, he would first finish his pinch of snuff, flick 
away the remaining particles of dust with a graceful wave of his 
hand, gather up his fingers again into a bunch, and bringing them 
up to his mouth, blow them open with a kiss, exclaiming. Ah / la 
divine creature ! He vowed and protested that when Amelia walked 
in the Brompton lanes flowers grew in profusion under her feet. 
He called little Georgy Cupid, and asked him news of Venus, his 
mamma ; and told the astonished Betty Flanagan that she was 
one of the Graces, and the favorite attendant of the Reine des 
Amours. 

Instances might be multiplied of this easily gained and uncon- 
scious popularity. Did not Mr. Binny, the mild and genteel 
curate of the district chapel which the family attended, call assid- 
uously upon the widow, dandle the little boy on his knee, and 
offer to teach him Latin, to the anger of the elderly virgin, his sis- 
ter, who kept house for him ! " There is nothing in her, Beilby,'' 
the latter would say. " When she comes to tea here she does not 



A FAMILY IN A SMALL WAY. 



431 



speak a word during the whole evening. She is but a poor lacka- 
daisical creature, and it is my belief has no heart at all. It is 
only her pretty face which all you gentlemen admire so. Miss 
Gritts, who has five thousand pounds, and expectations besides, 
has twice as much character, and is a thousand times more agree- 
able to my taste ; and if she were good-looking I know that you 
would think her perfection." 

Very likely Miss Binny was right to a great extent. It is the 




pretty face which creates sympathy in the hearts of men, those 
wicked rogues. A woman may possess the wisdom and chastity of 
Minerva, and we give no heed to her, if she has a plain face. 
What folly will not a pair of bright eyes make pardonable ? What 
dullness may not red lips and sweet accents render pleasant ? 
And so, with their usual sense of justice, ladies argue that because 
a woman is handsome, therefore she is a fool. Oh, ladies, ladies 1 
there are some of you who are neither handsome nor wise. 

These are but trivial incidents to recount in the life of our hero- 
ine. Her tale does not deal in wonders, as the orentle reader has 



432 VANITY FAIR, 

already no doubt perceived ; and if a journal had been kept of 
her proceedings during the seven years after the birth of her son, 
there would be found few incidents more remarkable in it than 
that of the measles, recorded in the foregoing page. Yes, one 
day, and greatly to her wonder, the Reverend Mr. Binny, just 
mentioned, asked her to change her name of Osborne for his 
own ; when, with deep blushes, and tears in her eyes and voice, 
she thanked him for his regard for her, expressed gratitude for his 
attentions to her and to her poor little boy, but said that she 
never, never could think of any but — but the husband whom she 
had lost. 

On the twenty-fifth of April and the eighteenth of June, the days 
of marriage and widowhood, she kept her room entirely, consecrat- 
ing them (and we do not know how many hours of solitary night- 
thought, her little boy sleeping in his crib by her bedside) to the 
memory of that departed friend. During the day she was more 
active. She had to teach George to read and to write, and a little 
to draw. She read books, in order that she might tell him stories 
from them. As his eyes opened, and his mind expanded, under 
the influence of the outward nature round about him, she taught 
the child, to the best of her humble power, to acknowledge the 
Maker of all ; and every night and every morning he and she — (in 
that awful and touching communion which I think must bring a 
thrill to the heart of every man who witnesses or who remembers 
it) — the mother and the little boy — prayed to our Father together, 
mother pleading with all her gentle heart, the child lisping after the 
her as she spoke. And each time they prayed God to bless dear 
papa, as if he were alive and in the room with them. 

To wash and dress this young gentleman — to take him for a run 
of the mornings, before breakfast and the retreat of grandpapa for 
" business " — to make for him the most wonderful and ingenious 
dresses, for which end the thrifty widow cut up and altered every 
available little bit of finery which she possessed out of her ward- 
robe during her marriage — for Mrs. Osborne herself (greatly to 
her mother's vexation, who preferred fine clothes, especially since 
her misfortunes) always wore a black gown, and a straw bonnet 
with a black ribbon — occupied her many hours of the day. Others 
she had to spare, at the service of her mother and her old father. 
She had taken the pains to learn, and used to play cribbage with 
this gentleman on the nights when he did not go to his club. She 
sang for him when he was so minded, and it was a good sign, for 
he invariably fell into a comfortable sleep during the music. She 
wrote out Ms numerous memorials, letters, prospectuses and pro- 
jects. It was in her hand-writing that most of the old gentleman's 
former acquaintances were informed that he had become an ag.entfor 



A FAMIL Y IN A SMALL WA K 



433 



the Black Diamond and Anti-cinder Coal Company, and could supply 
his friends and the public with the best coals at — s. per chaldron. 
All he did was to sign the circulars with his flourish and signature, 
and direct them in a shaky clerk-like hand. One of these papers 
was sent to Major Dobbin, — Regt, care of Messrs. Cox and 
Greenwood ; but the major being in Madras at the time, had no 
particular call for coals. He knew, though, the hand which had 
written the prospectus. Good God ! what would he not have 
given to hold it in his own ! A second prospectus came out, 
informing the major that J. Sedley and Company, having estab- 
lished agencies at Oporto, Bordeaux, and St. Mary's, were ena- 
bled to offer to their friends and the public generally the finest 
and most celebrated growths of ports, sherries, and claret wines at 
reasonable prices, and under extraordinary advantages. Acting 
upon this hint, Dobbin furiously canvassed the governor, the com- 
mander-in-chief, the judges, the regiments, and everybody whom 
he knew in the Presidency, and sent home to Sedley and Co. 
orders for wine which perfectly astonished Mr. Sedley and Mr. 
Clapp, who was the Co. in the business. But no more orders 
came after that first burst of good fortune, on which poor old Sed- 
ley was about to build a house in the city, a regiment of clerks, a 
dock to himself, and correspondents all over the world. The old 
gentleman's former taste in wine had gone ; the curses of the 
mess-room assailed Major Dobbin for the vile drinks he had been 
the means of introducing there ; and he bought back a great quan- 
tity of the wine, and sold it at public outcry, at an enormous loss 
to himself. As for Jos, who was by this time promoted to a seat 
at the Revenue Board at Calcutta, he was wild with rage when the 
post brought him out a bundle of these Bacchanalian prospectuses, 
with a private note from his father, telling Jos that his senior 
counted upon him in this enterprise, and had consigned a quantity 
of select wines to him, as per invoice, drawing bills upon him for 
the amount of the same. Jos, who would no more have it sup- 
posed that his father, Jos Sedley's father, of the Board of Revenue, 
was a wine merchant asking for orders, than that he was Jack 
Ketch, refused the bills with scorn, wrote back contumeliously to 
the old gentleman, bidding him to mind his own aft'airs ; and the 
protested paper coming back, Sedley and Co. had to take it up 
with the profits which they had made out of the Madras venture, 
and a little portion of Emmy's savings. 

Besides her pension of fifty pounds a year, there had been five 
hundred pounds, as her husband's executor stated, left in the 
agent's hands at the time of Osborne's demise, which sum, as 
George's guardian, Dobbin proposed to put out at 8 per cent in an 
Indian house of agency. Mr. Sedley, who thought the major had 
28 



434 VANITY FAIR. 

some roguish intentions of his own about the money, was strongly 
against this plan ; and he went to the agents to protest personally 
against the employment of the money in question, when he learned, 
to his surprise, that there had been no such sum in their hands, 
that all the late captain's assets did not amount to a hundred 
pounds, and that the five hundred pounds in question must be a 
separate sum, of which Major Dobbin knew the particulars. 
More than ever convinced that there was some roguery, old Sed- 
ley pursued the major. As his daughter's nearest friend, he 
demanded with a high hand a statement of the late captain's 
accounts. Dobbin's stammering, blushing, and awkwardness 
added to the other's convictions that he had a rogue to deal with ; 
and in a majestic tone he told that officer a piece of his mind, as 
he called it, simply stating his belief that the major was unlawfully 
detaining his late son-in-law's money. 

Dobbin at this lost all patience, and if his accuser had not been 
so old and so broken, a quarrel might have ensued between them at 
the Slaughters' Coffee-house, in a box of which place of entertain- 
ment the gentlemen had their colloquy. " Come up stairs, sir," 
lisped out the major. " I insist on your coming up the stairs, and 
I will show which is the injured party, poor George or I ; " and, 
dragging the old gentleman up to his bed-room, he produced from 
his desk Osborne's accounts, and a bundle of I O U's which the 
latter had given, who, to do him justice, was always ready to give 
an I O U. " He paid his bills in England," Dobbin added, "but he 
had not a hundred pounds in the world when he fell. I and one 
or two of his brother-officers made up the little sum, which was all 
that we could spare, and you dare tell us that we are trying to cheat 
the widow and the orphan." Sedley was very contrite and hum- 
bled, though the fact is, that William Dobbin had told a 
great falsehood to the old gentleman ; having himself given every 
shilling of the money, having buried his friend, and paid all the 
fees and charges incident upon the calamity and removal of poor 
Amelia. 

About these expenses old Osborne had never given himself any 
trouble to think, nor any other relative of Amelia, nor Amelia her- 
self, indeed. She trusted to Major Dobbin as an accountant, took 
his somewhat confused calculations for granted : and never once 
suspected how much she was in his debt. 

Twice or thrice in the year, according to her promise, she wrote 
him letters to Madras, letters all about little Georgy. How he treas- 
ured these papers ! Whenever Amelia wrote he answered, and not 
until then. But he sent over endless remembrances of himself to his 
godson and to her. He ordered and sent a box of scarf s, and a 
grand ivory set of chess-men from China. The pawns were little . 



A FA MIL Y IN A SMALL WA Y. 435 

green and white men, with real swords and shields ; the knights were 
on horseback, the castles were on the backs of elephants. " Mrs. 
Mango's own set at the Pineries was not so fine," Mr. Pestler re- 
marked. These chess-men were the delight of Georgy's life, who 
printed his first letter in acknowledgment of this gift of his godpapa. 
He sent over preserves and pickles, which latter the young gentleman 
tried surreptitiously in the sideboard, and half-killed himself with 
eating. He thought it was a judgment upon him for stealing, they 
were so hot. Emmy wrote a comical little account of this mishap 
to the major; it pleased him to think that her spirits were rallying, 
and that she could be merry sometimes now. He sent over a pair 
of shawls, a white one for her, and a black one with palm-leaves 
for her mother, and a pair of red scarfs, as winter wrappers, for 
old Mr. Sedley and George. The shawls were worth fifty guineas 
a piece at the very least, as Mrs. Sedley knew. She wore hers in 
state at church at Brompton, and was congratulated by her female 
friends upon the splendid acquisition. Emmy's, too, became pret- 
tily her modest black gown. " What a pity it is she won't think of 
him ! '* Mrs. Sedley remarked to Mrs. Clapp, and to all her friends 
of Brompton. " Jos never sent us such presents, I am sure, and 
gradges us everything. It is evident that the major is over head 
and ears in love with her ; and yet, whenever I so much as hint it, 
she turns red and begins to cry, and goes and sits up stairs with 
her miniature. I'm sick of that miniature. I wish we had never 
seen those odious purse-proud Osbornes." 

Amid such humble scenes and associates George's early youth 
was passed, and the boy grew up delicate, sensitive, imperious, wom- 
an-bred — domineering the gentle mother whom he loved with pas- 
sionate affection. He ruled all the rest of the little world round 
about him. As he grew, the elders were amazed at his haughty 
manner and his constant likeness to his father. He asked ques- 
tions about everything, as inquiring youth will do. The profundity 
of his remarks and interrogatories astonished his old grandfather, 
who perfectly bored the club at the tavern with stories about the 
little lad's learning and genius. He suffered his grandmother with 
a good-humored indifference. The small circle round about him 
believed that the equal of the boy did not exist upon the earth. 
Georgy inherited his father's pride, and perhaps thought they were 
not wrong. 

When he grew to be about six years old, Dobbin began to write 
to him very much. The major wanted to hear that Georgy was 
going to a school, and hoped he would acquit himself with credit 
there ; or would he have a good tutor at home ? it was time that he 
should begin to learn ; and his godfather and guardian hinted that 
he hoped to be allowed to defray the charges of the boy's education. 



436 VANITY FAIR. 

which would fall heavily upon his mother's straitened income. 
The major, in a w^ord, was always thinking about Amelia and her 
little boy, and by orders to his agents kept the latter provided with 
picture-books, paint-boxes, desks, and all conceivable implements 
of amusement and instruction. Three days before Goerge's sixth 
birthday a gentleman in a gig, accompanied by a servant, drove up 
to Mr, Sedley's house, and asked to see Master George Osborne ; 
it was Mr. Woolsey, military tailor, of Conduit Street, who came 
at the major's order to measure the young gentleman for a suit of 
clothes. He had had the honor of making for the captain, the 
young gentleman's father. 

Sometimes, too, and by the major's desire, no doubt, his sisters, 
the Misses Dobbin, would call in the family carriage to take Amelia 
and the little boy a drive if they were so inclined. The patronage 
and kindness of these ladies was very uncomfortable to Amelia, 
but she bore it meekly enough, for her nature was to yield ; and, 
besides, the carriage and its splendors gave little Georgy immense 
pleasure. The ladies begged occasionally that the child might pass 
a day with them, and he was always glad to go to that fine garden- 
house at Denmark Hill, where they lived, and where there were 
such fine grapes in the hot-houses and peaches on the walls. 

One day they kindly came over to Amelia with news which they 
were sure would delight her — something very interesting about 
their dear William. 

^' What was it ; was he coming home ? " she asked with pleasure 
beaming in her eyes. 

" Oh no — not the least — but they had very good reason to be- 
lieve that dear William was about to be married — and to a rela- 
tion of a very dear friend of Amelia's — to Miss Glorvina O'Dowd, 
Sir Michael O'Dowd's sister, who had gone out to join Lady 
O'Dowd at Madras — a very beautiful and accomplished girl, every- 
body said." 

Amelia said '• Oh ! " Amelia was very, very happy indeed. But 
she supposed Glorvina could not be like her old acquaintance, who 
was most kind — but — but she was very happy indeed. And by some 
impulse of which I can not explain the meaning, she took George 
in her arms and kissed him with an extraordinary tenderness. Her 
eyes were quite moist when she put the child down ; and she 
scarcely spoke a word during the whole of the drive — though she 
was so very happy indeed. 



A CYNICAL CHAPTER. 



437 



CHAPTER XXXIX. 




A CYNICAL CHAPTER. 

UR duty now takes us back for a brief 
space to some old Hampshire acquaint- 
ances of ours, whose hopes respecting 
the disposal of their rich kinswoman's 
property were so wofuUy disappointed. 
After counting upon thirty thou- 
sand pounds from his sister, it was 
a heavy blow to Bute Crawley to receive 
but five : out of which sum, when he 
had paid his own debts and those of 
Jim, his son at college, a very small frag- 
ment remained to portion off his four plain daughters. Mrs. Bute 
never knew, or at least never acknowledged, how far her own tyran- 
nous behavior had tended to ruin her husband. All that woman 
could do, she vowed and protested she had done. Was it her 
fault if she did not possess those sycophantic arts which her 
hypocritical nephew, Pitt Crawley, practiced ? She wished him all 
the happiness which he merited out of his ill-gotten gains. " At 
least the money will remain in the family," she said, charitablyc 
" Pitt will never spend it, my dear, that is quite certain ; for a 
greater miser does not exist in England, and he is as odious, 
though in a different way, as his spendthrift brother, the abandoned 
Rawdon." 

So Mrs. Bute, after the first shock of rage and disappointment, 
began to accommodate herself as best she could to her altered 
fortunes, and to save and retrench with all her might. She 
instructed her daughters how to bear poverty cheerfully, and 
invented a thousand notable methods to conceal or evade it. She 
took them about to balls and public places in the neighborhood 
with praiseworthy energy ; nay, she entertained her friends in a 
hospitable, comfortable manner at the Rectory, and much more 
frequently than before dear Miss Crawley's legacy had fallen in. 
From her outward bearing nobody would have supposed that the 
. family had been disappointed in their expectations ; or have 
guessed from her frequent appearance in public how she pinched 
and starved at home. Her girls had more milliners' furniture than 
they had ever enjoyed before. They appeared perseveringly at 



438 VANITY FAIR. 

the Winchester and Southampton assemblies ; they penetrated to 
Cowes for the race-balls and regatta gayeties there ; and their 
carriage, with the horses taken from the plow, was at work 
perpetually; until it began almost to be believed that the four 
sisters had had fortunes left them by their aunt, whose name the 
family never mentioned in public but with the most tender gratitude 
and regard. I know no sort of lying which is more frequent in 
Vanity Fair than this ; and it may be remarked how people who 
practice it take credit to themselves for their hypocrisy, and fancy 
that they are exceedingly virtuous and praiseworthy, because they 
are able to deceive the world with regard to the extent of their 
means. 

Mrs. Bute certainly thought herself one of the most virtuous 
women in England, and the sight of her happy family was an 
edifying one to strangers. They were so cheerful, so loving, so 
well-educated, so simple ! Martha painted flowers exquisitely, and 
furnished half the charity bazaars in the county. Emma was a 
regular county bulbul, and her verses in the Hampshire * Tele- 
graph were the glory of its Poet's Corner. Fanny and Matilda 
sang duets together, mamma playing the piano, and the other two 
sisters sitting with their arms round each other's waists, and 
listening affectionately. Nobody saw the poor girls drumming at 
the duets in private. No one saw mamma drilling them rigidly 
hour after hour. In a word, Mrs. Bute put a good face against 
fortune, and kept up appearances in the most virtuous manner. 

Everything that a good ana respectable mother could do Mrs. 
Bute did. She got over yachting men from Southampton, parsons 
from the Cathedral Close at Winchester, and oflicers from the 
barracks there. She tried to inveigle the young barristers at 
assizes, and encouraged Jim to bring home friends with whom he 
went out hunting with the H. H. What will not a mother do for 
the benefit of her beloved ones ? 

Between such a woman and her brother-in-law, the odious 
baronet at the hall, it is manifest that there could be very little in 
common. The rupture between Bute and his brother Sir Pitt 
was complete ; indeed, between Sir Pitt and the whole county,, to 
which the old man was a scandal. His dislike for respectable 
society increased with age, and the lodge gates had not opened to 
a gentleman's carriage wheels since Pitt and Lady Jane came to 
pay their visit of duty after their marriage. 

That was an awful and unfortunate visit, never to be thought of 
by the family without horror. Pitt begged his wife, with a ghastly" 
countenance, never to speak of it ; and it was only through Mrs. 
Bute herself, w^ho still knew everything which took place at the 



A CYNICAL CHAPTER. 439 

hall, that the circumstances of Sir Pitt's reception of his son and 
daughter-in-law were ever known at all. 

As they drove up the avenue of the park in their neat and well- 
appointed carriage, Pitt remarked with dismay and wrath great 
gaps among the trees — his trees — which the old baronet was felling 
entirely without license. The park wore an aspect of utter dreari- 
ness and ruin. The drives were ill-kept, and the neat carriage 
splashed and floundered in muddy pools along the road. The 
great sweep in front of the terrace and entrance stair was black 
and covered with mosses ; the once trim flower-beds rank and 
weedy. Shutters were up along almost the whole line of the 
house ; the great hall-door was unbarred after much ringing of 
the bell ; an individual in ribbons was sc jn flitting up the black oak 
stair, as Horrocks at length a^" *tted the heir of Queen's Crawley 
and his bride into the halls of their fathers. He led the way into 
Sir Pitt's " Library," as it was called, the fumes of tobacco grow- 
ing stronger as Pitt and Lady Jane approached that apartment. 
" Sir Pitt ain't very well," Horrocks remarked apologetically, and 
hinted that his master was afflicted with lumbago. 

The library looked out on the front wall and park. Sir Pitt had 
opened one of the windows, and was bawling out thence to the 
postilion and Pitt's servant, who seemed to be about to take the 
baggage down. 

" Don't move none of them trunks," he cried, pointing with a 
pipe which he held in his hand. " It's only a morning visit. 
Tucker, you fool. Lor, what cracks that off hoss has in his heels ! 
Ain't there no one at the King's Head to rub 'em a httle ? How 
do, Pitt .'' How do, my dear ? Come to see the old man, hay ? 
Gad — you've a pretty face, too. You ain't like that old horse- 
godmother, your mother. Come and give old Pitt a kiss, like a 
good little gal." 

The embrace disconcerted the daughter-in-law somewhat, as the 
caresses of the old gentleman, unshorn and perfumed with tobacco, 
might well do. But she remembered that her brother Southdown 
had mustachios, and smoked cigars, and submitted to the baronet 
with a tolerable grace. 

" Pitt has got vat," said the baronet, after this, mark of affection. 
" Does he read ee very long zermons, my dear ? Hundredth 
Psalm, Evening Hymn, hay Pitt ? Go and get a glass of Malmsey, 
and a cake for my Lady Jane, Horrocks, you great big booby, and 
don't stand stearing there like a fat pig. I won't ask you to stop, 
my dear ; you'll find it too stoopid, and so should I too along a 
Pitt. I'm an old man now, and like my own ways, and my pipe 
and backgammon of a night." 

" I can play at backgammon, sir," said Lady Jane, laughing, 



440 VANITY FAIR, 

" I used to play with papa and Miss Crawley, didn't I, Mr. 
Crawley ? " 

" Lady Jane can play, sir, at the game to which you state that 
you are so partial," Pitt said, haughtily. 

" But she wawn't stop for all that. Naw, naw, goo back to 
Mudbury and give Mrs. Rincer a benefit ; or drive down to the 
rectory, and ask Buty for a dinner. He'll be charmed to see you, 
you know; he's so much obliged to you fer gittin' the old woman's 
money. Ha, ha ! Some of it will do to patch up the hall 
wh-en I'm gone." 

"I perceive, sir," said Pitt, with a heightened voice, "that your 
people will cut down the timber." 

" Yees, yees, very fine weather, and seasonable for the time of 
year," Sir Pitt answered, who had suddenly grown deaf. " But I'm 
gittin' old, Pitt, now. Law bless you, you ain't far from fifty your- 
self. But he wears well, my pretty Lady Jane, don't he ? It's all 
godliness, sobriety, and a moral life. Look at me, I'm not very 
fur from fowr-score — he, he ; " and he laughed, and took snuff, and 
leered at her and pinched her hand. 

Pitt once more brought the conversation pack to the timber ; 
but the baronet was deaf again in an instant. 

" I'm gittin' very old, and have been cruel bad this year with 
the lumbago. I shan't be here now for long ; but I'm glad ee've 
come, daughter-in-law. I like your face. Lady Jane ; it's got none 
of the damned high-boned Binkie look in it; and I'll give ee 
something pretty, my dear, to go to court in." And he shuffled 
across the room to a cupboard, from which he took a little old 
case containing jewels of some value. " Take that," said he, " my 
dear ; it belonged to my mother, and afterward to the first Lady 
Binkie, Pretty pearls — never gave 'em the ironmonger's daughter. 
No, no. Take 'em and put 'em up quick," said he, thrusting the 
case into his daughter's hand, and clapping the door of the cabinet 
to, as Horrocks entered with a salver and refreshments. 

" What have you been and given Pitt's wife ? " said the individ- 
ual in ribbons, when Pitt and Lady Jane had taken leave of the old 
gentleman. It was Miss Horrocks, the butler's daughter — the 
cause of the scandal throughout the county — the lady who reigned 
now almost supreme at Queen's Crawley. 

The rise and progress of those ribbons had been marked with 
dismay by the county and family. The Ribbons opened an ac- 
count at the Mudbury Branch Savings Bank ; the Ribbons drove 
to church, monopolizing the pony-chaise, which was for the use of 
the servants at the hall. The domestics were dismissed at her 
pleasure. The Scotch gardener, who still lingered on the prem- 
ises, taking a pride in his walls and hot-houses, and indeed making 



A CYNICAL CHAPTER. ' ' 441 

a pretty good livelihood by the garden, which he farmed, and of 
which he sold the produce at Southampton, found the Ribbons eat- 
ing peaches on a sunshiny morning at the south wall, and had his 
ears boxed when he remonstrated about this attack on his property. 
He and his Scotch wife and his Scotch children, the only respect- 
able inhabitants of Queen's Crawley, were forced to migrate, with 
their goods and their chattels, and left the stately comfortable gar- 
dens to go to waste, and the flower-beds to run to seed. Poor 
Lady Crawley's rose garden became the dreariest wilderness. 
Only two or three domestics shuddered in the bleak old servants^ 
hall. The stables and offices were vacant, and shut up, and half 
ruined. Sir Pitt lived in private, and boozed nightly with Hor- 
rocks, his butler or house-steward (as he now began to be called), 
and the abandoned Ribbons. The times were very much changed 
since the period when she drove to Mudbury in the spring-cart, 
and called the small tradesmen " Sir." It may have been shame, 
or it may have been dislike of his neighbors, but the old cynic of 
Queen's Crawley hardly issued from his park -gates at all now. 
He quarreled with his agents, and screwed his tenants by letter. 
His days were passed in conducting his own correspondence : the 
lawyer and farm-bailiffs who had to do business with him, could 
not reach him but through the Ribbons, who received them at the 
door of the housekeeper's room, which commanded the back en- 
trance by which they were admitted ; and so the baronet's daily 
perplexities increased, and his embarrassments multiplied round 
him. 

The horror of Pitt Crawley may be imagined, as these reports 
of his father's dotage reached the most exemplar}^ and correct of 
gentlemen. He trembled daily lest he should hear that the Rib- 
bons was proclaimed his second legal mother-in-law. After that 
first and last visit, his father's name was never mentioned in Pitt's 
polite and genteel establishment. It was the skeleton in his house, 
and all the family walked by it in terror and silence. The Count- 
ess Southdown kept on dropping per coach at the lodge gate the 
most exciting tracts — tracts which ought to frighten the hair off 
your head. Mrs. Bute at the parsonage nightly looked out to see 
if the sky was red over the elms behind which the hall stood, and 
the mansion was on fire. Sir G. Wapshot and Sir H. Fuddle- 
stone, old friends of the house, wouldn't sit on the bench with Sir 
Pitt at Quarter Sessions, and cut him dead in the High Street of 
Southampton, where the reprobate stood offering his dirty old 
hands to them. Nothing had any effect upon him; he put his 
hands into his pockets, and burst out laughing, as he scrambled 
into his carriage and four ; he used to burst out laughing at Lad)- 



442 ■ VANITY FAIR. 

Southdown's tracts ; and he laughed at his sons, and at the world, 
and at the Ribbons when she was angry, which was not seldom. 

Miss Horrocks was installed as housekeeper at Queen's Craw- 
ley, and ruled all the domestics there with great majesty and rigor. 
All the servants were instructed to address her as " Mum," or 
" Madam," — and there was one little maid, on her promotion, who 
persisted in calling her " My Lady," without any rebuke on the 
part of the housekeeper. " There has been better ladies, and there 
has been worser, Hester," was Miss Horrocks's reply to this com- 
pliment of her inferior ; so she ruled, having supreme power over 
all except her father, whom, however, she treated with considera- 
ble haughtiness, warning him not to be too familiar in his behav- 
ior to one "as was to be a baronet's lady." Indeed, she 
rehearsed that exalted part in life with great satisfaction to her- 
self, and to the amusement of old Sir Pitt, who chuckled at her 
airs and graces, and would laugh by the hour together at her as- 
sumptions of dignity and imitations of genteel life. He swore it 
was as good as a play to see her in the character of a fine dame, 
and he made her put on one of the first Lady Crawley's court- 
dresses, swearing (entirely to Miss Horrocks's own concurrence) 
that the dress became her prodigiously, and threatening to drive 
her off that very instant to court in a coach-and-four. She had the 
ransacking of the wardrobes of the two defunct ladies, and cut and 
hacked their posthumous finery so as to suit her own tastes and 
figure. And she would have liked to take possession of their 
jewels and trinkets too ; but the old baronet had locked them away 
in his private cabinet, nor could she coax or wheedle him out of 
the keys. And it is a fact, that sometime after she left Queen's 
Crawley a copy-book belonging to this lady was discovered, which 
showed that she had taken great pains in private to learn the art 
of writing in general, and especially of writing her own name as 
Lady Crawley, Lady Betsy Horrocks, Lady Elizabeth Crawley, 
etc. 

Though the good people of the parsonage never went to the hall, 
and shunned the horrid old dotard its owner, yet they kept a strict 
knowledge of all that happened there, and were looking out every 
day for the catastrophe for which Miss Horrocks was also eager. 
But fate intervened enviously, and prevented her from receiving 
the rew^ard due to such immaculate love and virtue. 

One day the baronet surprised " her ladyship," as he jocularly 
called her, seated at that old and tuneless piano in the drawing- 
room, which had scarcely been touched since Becky Sharp played 
quadrilles upon it — seated at the piano with the utmost gravity, 
and squalling to the best of her power in imitation of the music, 
which she had sometimes heard. The little kitchen-maid on her 



A CYNICAL CHAPTER. 



443 



promotion was standing at her mistress's side, quite delighted dur- 
ing the operation, and wagging her head up and down, and crying, 
" Lor, mum, 'tis bittiful " — just like a genteel sycophant in a real 
drawing-room. 

This incident made the old baronet roar with laughter, as usual. 




He narrated the circumstance a dozen times to Horrocks in the 
course of the evening, and greatly to the discomfiture of Miss Hor- 
rocks. He thrummed on the table as if it had been a musical in- 
strument, and squalled in imitation of her manner of singing. He 
vowed that such a beautiful voice ought to be cultivated, and de- 
clared she ought to have singing-masters, in which proposals she 
saw nothing ridiculous. He was in great spirits that night, and 
drank with his friend and butler an extraordinary quantity of 



444 VANITY FAIR. 

rum-and-water — at a very late hour the faithful friend and domestic 
conducted his master to his bed-room. 

Half an hour afterward there was a great hurry and bustle in the 
house. Lights went about from window to window in the lonely, 
desolate old hall, whereof but two or three rooms were ordinarily 
occupied by its owner. Presently a boy on a pony went galloping 
off to Mudbury, to the doctor's house there. And in another hour 
(by which fact we ascertam how carefully the excellent Mrs. Bute 
Crawley had always kept up an understanding with the great 
house), that lady, in her clogs and calash, the Reverend Bute Craw- 
ley, and James Crawley, her son, had walked over from the Rec- 
tory through the park, and had entered the mansion by the open 
hall-door. They passed through the hall and the small oak parlor, 
on the table of which stood the three tumblers and the empty rum- 
bottle which had served for Sir Pitt's carouse, and through that 
apartment into Sir Pitt's study, where they found Miss Horrocks, 
of the guilty ribbons, with a wild air, trying at the presses and es- 
critoires with a bunch of keys. She dropped them with a scream 
of terror as little Mrs. Butes's eyes flashed out at her from under 
her black calash. 

" Look at that, James and Mr. Crawley," cried Mrs. Bute, point- 
ing at the scared figure of the black-eyed guilty wench. 

" He gave 'em me ; he gave 'em me ! " she cried. 

" Gave them you, you abandoned creature ! " screamed Mrs. 
Bute. " Bear witness, Mr. Crawley, we found this good-for-noth- 
ing woman in the act of stealing your brother's property ; and she 
will be hanged, as I always said she would." 

Betsy Horrocks, quite daunted, flung herself down on her knees, 
bursting into tears. But those who know a really good woman are 
aware that she is not in a hurry to forgive, and that the humilia- 
tion of an enemy is a triumph to her soul. 

" Ring the bell, James," Mrs. Bute said. " Go on ringing it till 
the people come." The three or four domestics resident in the 
deserted old house came presently at that jangling and continued 
summons. 

" Put that woman in the strong room," she said. " We caught 
her in the act of robbing Sir Pitt. Mr. Crawley, you'll make out 
her committal — and, Beddoes, you'll drive over in the spring-cart, 
in the morning, to Southampton Jail." 

" My dear," interposed the magistrate and rector, " she's only — " 

" Are there no handcuffs ? " Mrs. Bute continued, stamping in her 
clogs. " There used to be handcuffs. Where's the creature's 
abominable father ? " 

" He did give 'em me," still cried poor Betsy : " didn't he, Hes 



446 VANITY FAIR. 

ter ? You saw Sir Pitt — you know you did — ^give *em me, ever so 
long ago — the day after Mudbury fair ; not that I want 'em. Take 
'em if you think they ain't mine." And here the unhappy wretch 
pulled out from her pocket a large pair of paste shoe-buckles 
which had excited her admiration, and which she had just appro- 
priated out of one of the book-cases in the study, where they had 
lain. 

" Law, Betsy, how could you go for to tell such a wicked story ! " 
said Hester, the little kitchen-maid late on her promotion — " and 
to Madame Crawley, so good and kind, and his Rev'rince (with a 
courtesy) and you may search all my boxes, mum. I'm sure, and 
here's my keys as I'm an honest girl though of pore parents and 
workhouse bred — and if you find so much as a beggarly bit of lace 
or a silk stocking out of all the gownds as you've had the picking 
of, may I never go to church agin." 

" Give up your keys, you hardened hussy," hissed out the virtu- 
ous little lady in the calash. 

"And here's the canlde, mum, and if you please, mum, I can 
show you her room, mum, and the press in the housekeeper's room, 
mum, where she keeps heaps and heaps of things, mum," cried out 
the eager little Hester with a profusion of courtesies. 

" Hold your tongue, if you please. I know the room which the 
creature occupies perfecty well. Mrs. Brown, have the goodness 
to come with me, and Beddoes, don't you lose sight of that 
woman," said Mrs. Bute, seizing the candle. " Mr. Crawley, you 
had better go up stairs, and see that they are not murdering your 
unfortunate brother " — and the calash, escorted by Mrs. Brown, 
walked away to the apartment, which, as she said truly, she knew 
perfectly well. 

Bute went up stairs, and found the doctor from Mudbury, with 
the frightened Horrocks over his master in a chair. They were 
trying to bleed Sir Pitt Crawley. 

With the early morning an express was sent ofl to Mr. Pitt 
Crawley by the rector's lady, who assumed the command of every- 
thing, and had watched the old baronet through ihe night. He 
tiad been brought back to a sort of life ; he could not speak, but 
seemed to recognize people. Mrs. Bute kept resolutely by his 
bedside. She never seemed to want to sleep, that little woman, 
and did not close her fiery black eyes once, though the doctor 
snored in the arm-chair. Horrocks made some wild efforts ' ^ as- 
sert his authority and assist his master ; but Mrs. Bute called him 
a tipsy old wretch, and bade him never show his face again in that 
house, or he should be transported like his abominable daughter. 

Terrified by her manner, he slunk down to the oak parlor where 



A CYNICAL CHAPTER. 447 

Mr. James was, who, having tried the bottle standing there and 
found no liquor in it, ordered Mr. Horrocks to get another bottle 
of rum, which he fetched with clean glasses, and to which the rec- 
tor and his son sat down, ordering Horrocks to put down the keys 
at that instant and never show his face again. 

Cowed by this behavior, Horrocks gave up the keys, and he and 
his daughter slunk off silently through the night, and gave up the 
possession of the house of Queen's Crawley, 



448 



VANITY FAIR, 



CHAPTER XL. 



IN WHICH BECKY IS RECOGNIZED BY THE FAMILY. 



HE heir of Crawley arrived at 
home in due time, after thrs 
catastrophe, and henceforth 
may be said to have reigned 
in Queen's Crawley. For 
though the old baronet sur- 
vived many months he never 
recovered the use of his in- 
tellect or his speech com- 
pletely, and the government 
of the estate devolved upon 
his elder son. In a strange 
condition Pitt found it. Sir 
Pitt was always buying and 
mortgaging; he had twenty 
men of business, and quar- 
rels with each ; quarrels with 
all his tenants, and lawsuits 
with them ; lawsuits with the 
lawyers ; lawsuits with the 
mining and dock companies in which he was proprietor ; and with 
every person with whom he had business. To unravel these diffi- 
culties, and set the estate clear, was a task worthy of the orderly 
and persevering diplomatist of Pumpernickel ; and he set himself to 
work with prodigious assiduity. His whole family, of course, was 
transported to Queen's Crawley, whither Lady Southdown, of 
course, came too ; and she set about converting the parish under 
the rector's nose, and brought down her irregular clergy to the dis- 
may of the angry Mrs. Bute. Sir Pitt had concluded no bargain 
for the sale of the living of Queen's Crawley ; when it should drop, 
her ladyship proposed to take the patronage into her own hands, 
and present a young protege to the Rectory ; on which subject the 
diplomatic Pitt said nothing. 

Mrs. Bute's intentions with regard to Miss Betsy Horrocks were 
not carried into effect ; and she paid no visit to Southampton Jail. 
She and her father left the hall, when the latter took possession of 




BECKY IS RECOCmZED BY THE FAMILY. 449 

the Crawley Arms in the village, of which he had got a lease from 
Sir. Pitt. The ex-butler had obtained a small freehold there like- 
wise, which gave him a vote for the borough. The rector had 
another of these votes, and these and four others formed the rep- 
resentative body which returned the two members for Queen's 
Crawley. 

There was a show of courtesy kept up between the rectory and 
the hall ladies, between the younger ones at least, for Mrs. Bute 
and Lady Southdown never could meet without battles, and grad- 
ually ceased seeing each other. Her ladyship kept her room when 
the ladies from the rectory visited their cousins at the hall. Per- 
haps Mr. Pitt was not very much displeased at these occasional 
absences of his mamma-in-law. He believed the Binkie family to 
be the greatest and wisest and most interesting in the world, and 
her ladyship and his aunt had long held ascendency over him : but 
sometimes he felt that she commanded him too much. To be con- 
sidered young was complimentary, doubtless ; but at six-and-forty 
to be treated as a boy was sometimes mortifying. Lady Jane 
yielded up everything, however, to her mother. She was only 
fond of her children in private ; and it was lucky for her that 
Lady Southdown's multifarious business, her conferences with min- 
isters, and her correspondence with all the missionaries of Africa, 
Asia, and Australasia, etc., occupied the venerable countess a 
great deal, so that she had iDut little time to devote to her grand- 
daughter, the little Matilda, and her grandson Master Pitt Crawley. 
The latter was a feeble child ; and it was only by prodigious quan- 
tities of calomel that Lady Southdown was able to keep him in 
life at all. 

As for Sir Pitt, he retired into those very apartments where 
Lady Crawley had been previously extinguished, and here was 
tended by Miss Hester, the girl upon her promotion, with constant 
care and assiduity. What love, what fidelity, what constancy is 
there equal to that of a nurse with good wages ? They smoothe 
pillows, and make arrowroot ; they get up at nights ; they bear 
complaints and querulousness ; they see the sun shining out of 
doors and don't want to go abroad ; they sleep on arm-chairs, and 
eat their meals in solitude ; they pass long, long evenings doing 
nothing, watching the embers, and the patient's drink simmering in 
the jug ; they read the weekly paper the whole week through ; 
and " Law's Serious Call " or the " Whole Duty of Man " suffices 
them for literature for the year — and we quarrel with them because, 
when their relations come to see them once a week, a little gin is 
smuggled in in their Hnen-basket. Ladies, what man's love is 
there that would stand a year's nursing of the object of his affec- 
tion ? Whereas a nurse will stand by you for ten pounds a quarter, 
29 



450 



VANITY FAIR. 



and we think her too highly paid. At least Mr. Crawley grumbled 
a good deal about paying half as much to Miss Hester for her con- 
stant attendance upon the baronet his father. 




Of sunshiny days this old gentleman was taken out in a chair on 
the terrace — the very chair which Miss Crawley had had at 
Brighton, and which had been transported thence with a number 
of Lady Southdown's effects to Queen's Crawley. Lady Jane al- 
ways walked by the old man ; and v/as an evident favorite with 



BECKY IS RECOGNIZED BY THE FAMILY. 451 

him. He used to nod many times to her and smile when she 
came in, and utter inarticulate, deprecator}^ moans when she was 
going away. When the door shut upon her he would cry and sob 
— whereupon Hester's face and manner, which was always exceed- 
ingly bland and gentle while her lady was present, would change 
at once, and she would make faces at him, and clinch her fist, and 
scream out, " Hold 3^our tongue, you stoopid old fool," and twirl 
away his chair from the fire which he loved to look at — at which 
he would cry more. For this was all that was left after more than 
seventy years of cunning and struggling, and drinking, and schem- 
ing, and sin and selfishness — a whimpering old idiot put in and 
out of bed and cleaned and fed like a baby. 

At last a day came when the nurse's occupation was over. Early 
one morning, as Pitt Crawley was at his steward's and bailiff's 
books in the study, a knock came to the door, and Hester pre- 
sented herself, dropping a courtesy, and said, 

" If you please. Sir Pitt, Sir Pitt died this morning. Sir Pitt. I 
was a-making of his toast, Sir Pitt, for his gruel. Sir Pitt, which he 
took every morning regular at six, Sir Pitt, and — I thought I heard 
a moan like. Sir Pitt — and — and — and — " She dropped another 
courtesy. 

What was it that made Pitt's pale face flush quite red ? Was it 
because he was Sir Pitt at last, with a seat in Parliament, and per- 
haps future honors in prospect? " I'll clear the estate now with 
ready money," he thought, and rapidly calculated its incumbrances 
and the improvements which he would make. He would not use 
his aunt's money previously, lest Sir Pitt should recover and his 
outlay be in vain. 

AH the blinds were pulled down at the hall and rectory ; the 
church bell was tolled, and the chancel hung in i)lack ; and Bute 
Crawley didn't go to a coursing meeting, but went and dined 
quietly at Fuddleston, where they talked about his deceased 
brother and young Sir Pitt over their port. Miss Betsy, who was 
by this time married to a saddler at Mudbury, cried a good deal. 
The family surgeon rode over and paid his respectful compliments, 
and inquiries for the health of their lad3^ships. The death was 
talked about at Mudbury and at the Crawley Arms ; the landlord 
whereof had become reconciled with the rector of late, who was 
occasionally known to step into the parlor and taste Mr. Horrocks's 
mild beer. 

" Shall I write to your brother — or will you ? " asked Lady Jane 
of her husband. Sir Pitt. 

" I will write, of course," Sir Pitt said, " and invite him to the 
funeral ; it will be but becoming." 

" And — and — Mrs. Rawdon," said Lady Jane timidly. 



452 VANITY FAIR. 

" Jane ! " said Lady Southdown, " how can you think of such a 
thing? " 

" Mrs. Rawdon must of course be asked," said Sir Pitt resolutely. 

" Not while /am in the house ! " said Lady Southdown. 

" Your ladyship will be pleased to recollect that I am the head 
of this famiy," Sir Pitt replied. " If you please. Lady Jane, you 
will write a letter to Mrs. Rawdon Crawley, requesting her pres- 
ence upon this melancholy occasion." 

" Jane, I forbid you to put pen to paper ! " cried the countess. 

" I believe I am the head of this family," Sir Pitt repeated ; 
" and, however much I may regret any circumstance which may 
lead to your ladyship quitting this house, must, if you please, con- 
tinue to govern this house as I see fit." 

Lady Southdown rose up as magnificent as Mrs. Siddons in 
Lady Macbeth, and ordered that horses might be put to her car- 
riage. If her son and daughter turned her out of their house, she 
would hide her sorrows somewhere in loneliness, and pray for their 
conversion to better thoughts. 

'^ We don't turn you out of our house, mamma," said the timid 
Lady Jane imploringly. 

" You invite such company to it as no Christian lady should 
meet, and I will have my horses to-morrow morning." 

" Have the goodness to write, Jane, under my dictation," said 
Sir Pitt, rising, and throwing himself into an attitude of command 
like the portrait of a Gentleman in the Exhibition, " and begin, 
'Queen's Crawley, September 14, 1822 — My dear brother' — '" 

Hearing these decisive and terrible words. Lady Macbeth, who 
had been waiting for a sign of weakness or vacillation on the part 
of her son-in-law, rose, and with a scared look, left the library. 
Lady Jane looked up to her husband as if she would fain follow 
and soothe her mamma ; but Pitt forbade his wife to move. 

" She won't go away," he said. " She has let her house at 
Brighton, and has spent her last half-year's dividends. A countess 
living at an inn is a ruined woman. I have been waiting long for 
an opportunity to take this — this decisive step, my love ; for, as 
you must perceive, it is impossible that there should be two chiefs 
in a family ; and now, if you please, we will resume the dictation. 
* My dear brother, the melancholy intelligence which it is my duty 
to convey to my family must have been long anticipated by,' " etc. 

In a word, Pitt having gained his kingdom, and having by good 
luck, or desert rather, as he considered, assumed almost all the 
fortune which his other relatives had expected, was determined to 
treat his family kindly and respectably, and make a house of 
Queen's Crawley once more. It pleased him to think that he 
should be its chief. He proposed to use the vast influence that 



BECKY IS RECOGNIZED BY THE FAMIIY. 



453 



his commanding talents and position must speedily insure for him 
in the county to get his brother placed and his cousins decently 
provided for, and perhaps he had a little sting of repentance as he 
thought that he was the proprietor of all that they had lived for. 
In the course of three or four days' reign his bearing was changed, 




and his plans quite fixed ; he determined to rule justly and hon- 
estly, to depose Lady Southdown, and to be on the friendUest pos- 
sible terms with ail the relations of his blood. 

So he dictated a letter to his brother Rawdon— a solemn and 
elaborate letter, containing the profoundest observations, couched 
m the longest words, and filling with wonder the simple little sec- 
retary who wrote under her husband's order. " What an orator 



454 VANITY FAIR, 

this will be," thought she, " when he enters the House of Com- 
mons " (on which point, and on the tyranny of Lady Southdown, 
Pitt had sometimes dropped hints to his wife in bed) ; " how wise 
and good and what a genius my husband is ! I fancied him a little 
cold ; but how good, and what a genius ! " 

The fact is, Pitt Crawley had got every word of the letter by 
heart, and had studied it, with diplomatic secrecy, deeply and per- 
fectly, long before he thought fit to communicate it to his aston- 
ished wife. 

This letter, with a huge black border and seal, was accordingly 
dispatched by Sir Fitt Crawley to his brother the colonel in Lon- 
don. Rawdon Crawley was but half pleased at the receipt of it.. 
" What's the use of going down to that stupid place ? " thought he.. 
" I can't stand being alone with Pitt after dinner, and horses there 
and back will cost us twenty pound." 

He carried the letter, as he did all difficulties, to Becky, up stairs- 
in her bedroom — with her chocolate, which he always made and 
took to her of a morning. 

He put the tray with the breakfast and the letter on the dress- 
ing-table, before which Becky sat combing her yellow hair. She 
took up the black-edged missive, and having read it, she jumped 
up from the chair, crying, " Hurray ! " and waving the note round 
her head. " Hurray ! " said Rawdon, wondering at the little figure 
capering about in a streaming flannel dressing-gown, with tawny 
locks dishevelled. " He's not left us anything, Becky. I had my 
share when I came of age." 

" You'll never be of age, you silly old man," Becky replied. " Run 
out now to Madame Brunoy's, for I must have some mourning; 
and get a crape on your hat, and a black waistcoat — I don't think 
you've got one ; order it to be brought home to-morrow, so that we 
may be able to start on Thursday." 

" You don't mean to go ? " Rawdon interposed. 

"Of course I mean to go. I mean that Lady Jane shall pre- 
sent me at court next year. I mean that your brother shall give 
you a seat in Parliament, you stupid old creature. I mean that 
Lord Steyne shall have your vote and his, my dear, old silly man ; 
and that you shall be an Irish secretar}^, or a West Indian gov- 
ernor ; or a treasurer, or a consul, or some such thing." 

" Posting will cost a dooce of a lot of money," grumbled Raw- 
don. 

" We might take Southdown's carriage, which ought to be pres- 
ent at the funeral, as he is a relation of the family ; but, no— I 
intend that we shall go by the coach. They'll like it better. It 
seems more humble " 

" Rawdy goes, of course ? " the colonel asked. 



BECKY IS RECOGNIZED BY THE FAMIL Y 455 

" No such thing ; why pay an extra place ? He's too big to 
travel bodkin between you and me. Let him stay here in the 
nursery, and Briggs can make him a black frock. Go you ; and do 
as I bid you. And you had best tell Sparks your man that old 
Sir Pitt is dead, and that you will come in for something consider- 
able when the affairs are arranged. He'll tell this to Raggles, who 
has been pressing for money, and it will console poor Raggles." 
And so Becky began sipping her chocolate. 

When the faithful Lord Steyne arrived in the evening, he found 
Becky and her companion, who w,as no other than our friend 
Briggs, busy cutting, ripping, snipping, and tearing all sorts of 
black stuffs available for the melancholy occasion. 

" Miss Briggs and I are plunged in grief and despondency for 
the death of. our papa," Rebecca said. " Sir Pitt Crawley is dead, 
my lord. We have been tearing our hair all the morning, and now 
we are tearing up our old clothes." 

" Oh ! Rebecca how can you — " was all that Briggs could say as 
she turned up her eyes. 

" Oh ! Rebecca how can you — " echoed my lord. " So that old 
scoundrel's dead, is he ? He might have been a peer if he had 
played his cards better. Mr. Pitt had very nearly made him ; but 
he ratted always at the wrong time. What an old Silenus it 
was ! " 

" I might have been Silenus's widow," said Rebecca. " Don't 
you remember. Miss Briggs, how you peeped in at the door, and 
saw old Sir Pitt on his knees to me ? " Miss Briggs, our old 
friend, blushed very much at this reminiscence ; and was glad 
when Lord Steyne ordered her to go down stairs and make him a 
cup of tea. 

Briggs was the house-dog whom Rebecca had provided as guar- 
dian of her innocence and reputation. Miss Crawley had left her 
a little annuity. She would have been content to remain in the 
Crawley family with Lady Jane, who was good to her and to every- 
body ; but Lady Southdown dismissed poor Briggs as quickly as 
decency permitted ; and Mr. Pitt (who thought himself much in- 
jured by the uncalled-for generosity of his deceased relative, 
toward a lady who had only been Miss Crawdey's faithful retainer 
a score of years) made no objection to that exercise of the dowa- 
ger's authority. Bowls and Firkin likewise received their legacies, 
and their dismissals ; and married and set up a lodging-house, ac- 
cording to the custom of their kind. 

Briggs tried to live with her relations in the country, but found 
that attempt was vain after the better society to which she had 
been accustomed. Briggs's friends, small tradesmen, in a country 



456 VANITY FAIR, 

town, quarreled over Miss Eriggs's forty pounds a year as eagerly 
and more openly than Miss Crawley's kinsfolk had for that lady's 
inheritance. Eriggs's brother, a radical hatter and grocer, called 
his sister a purse-proud aristocrat, because she would not advance 
a part of her capital to stock his shop ; and she would have done 
so most likely, but that their sister, a dissenting shoemaker's lady, 
at variance with the hatter and grocer, who went to another 
chapel, showed how their brother was on the verge of bankruptcy, 
and took possession of Eriggs for awhile. The dissenting shoe- 
maker wanted Miss Eriggs to send his son to college and make a 
gentleman of him. Eetween them the two families got a great 
portion of her private savings out of her ; and finally she fled to 
London, followed by the anathemas of both, and determined to 
seek for servitude again as infinitely less onerous than liberty. 
And advertising in the papers that a " Gentlewoman of agreeable in 
manners, and accustomed to the best society, was anxious to," 
etc., she took up her residence with Mr. Eowls in Half Moon 
Street, and waited the result of the advertisement. 

So it was she fell in with Rebecca. Mrs. Rawdon's dashing lit- 
tle carriage and ponies was whirling down the street one day just 
as Miss Eriggs, fatigued, had reached Mr. Eowls's door, after a 
weary walk to the Times office in the city, to insert her advertise- 
ment for the sixth time. Rebecca was driving, and at once recog- 
nized the gentlewoman with agreeable manners, and being a 
perfectly good-humored woman, as we have seen, and having a 
regard for Eriggs, she pulled up the ponies at the doorsteps, gave 
the reins to the groom, and jumping out, had hold of both Eriggs's 
hands, before she of the agreeable manners had recovered from 
the shock of seeing an old friend. 

Eriggs cried, and Eecky laughed a great deal and kissed the 
gentlewoman as soon as they got into the passage ; and thence into 
Mrs. Eowls's front parlor, with the r^d moreen curtains, and the 
round looking-glass, with the cha;ned eagle above, gazing upon the 
back of the ticket in the window which announced " Apartments 
to let." 

Eriggs told all her history amid those perfectly uncalled-for 
sobs and ejaculations of wonder with which women of her soft 
nature salute an old acquaintance, or regard a rencontre in the 
street ; for though people meet other people every day, yet some 
there are who insist upon discovering miracles ; and women, even 
though they have disliked each other, begin to cry when they meet, 
deploring and remembering the time when they last quarreled. 
So, in a word, Eriggs told all her history, and Eecky gave a narra- 
tive of her own life, with her usual artlessness and candor. 

Mrs. Bowls, late Firkin, came and listened grimly in the passage 



1 



BECKY IS RECOGNIZED BY THE FAMILY. 457 

to the hysterical sniffling and giggling which went on in the front 
parlor. Becky had never been a favorite of hers. Since the 
establishment of the married couple in London they had fre- 
quented their former friends of the house of Raggles, and did not 
like the latter's account of the colonel's mmage. "/ wouldn'i 
trust him, Ragg, my boy," Bowls remarked ; and his wife, when 
Mrs. Rawdon issued from the parlor, only saluted the lady with a 
very sour courtesy ; and her fingers were like so many sausages, 
cold and lifeless, when she held them out in deference to Mrs. 
Rawdon, who persisted in shaking hands with the retired lady's 
maid. She whirled away into Piccadilly, nodding with the sweet- 
est of smiles toward Miss Briggs, who hung nodding at the 
window close under the advertisement card, and at the next mo- 
ment was in the park with a half-dozen of dandies cantering after 
her carriage. 

When she found how her friend was situated and how, having a 
snug legacy from Miss Crawley, salary was no object to our gen- 
tlewoman, Becky instantly formed some benevolent little domes- 
tic plans concerning her. This was just such a companion as 
would suit her establishment, and she invited Briggs to come to 
dinner with her that very evening, when she should see Becky's 
dear little darling Rawdon. 

Mrs. Bowls cautioned her lodger against venturing into the 
lion's den, " wherein you will rue it, Miss B., mark my words, and 
as sure as my name is Bowls." And Briggs promised to be very 
cautious. The upshot of which caution was that she came to live 
with Mrs. Rawdon the next week, and lent Rawdon Crawley six 
hundred pounds upon annuity before six months were over. 



458 



VANITY FAIR. 



CHAPTER XLI. 



IN WHICH BECKY REVISITS THE HALLS OF HER ANCESTORS. 

O the morning being ready, 
and Sir Pitt Crawley warned 
of their arrival, Colonel Craw- 
ley and his wife took a couple 
of places in the same old 
Highflyer coach by which 
Rebecca had traveled in the 
defunct baronet's company 
on her first journey into the 
world some nine years before. 
How well she remembered 
the inn-yard, and the ostler 
to whom she refused money, 
and the insinuating Cam- 
bridge lad who wrapped her 
in his coat on the journey ! 
Rawdon took his place out- 
side, and would have liked to 
____ drive, but his grief forbade 

^^ him. He sat by the coach- 

man, and talked about horses 
arid the road the whole way ! and who kept the inns, and who 
horsed the coach by which he had traveled so many a time, when 
he and Pitt were boys going to Eton. At Mudbury a carriage and 
a pair of horses received them, with a coachman in black. " It's 
the old drag, Rawdon," Rebecca said, as they got in. "The 
worms have eaten the cloth a good deal — there's the stain which 
Sir Pitt — ha ! I see Dawson the ironmonger has his shutters up — 
which Sir Pitt made such a noise about. It was a bottle of cherry 
brandy he broke which we went to fetch for your aunt from South- 
ampton. How time flies to be sure ! That can't be Polly Talboys, 
that bouncing girl standing by her mother at the cottage there. I 
remember her a mangy little urchin picking weeds in the garden." 
" Fine gal," said Rawdon, returning the salute which the cottage 
gave him by two fingers applied to his crape hat-band. Becky 
bowed and saluted, and recognized people here and there gra- 




THE HALLS OF BECKY'S ANCESTORS. 459 

ciously. These recognitions were inexpressibly pleasant to her. 
It seemed as if she was not an impostor any more, and was com- 
■ i»g to the home of her ancestors. Rawdon was rather abashed, 
and cast down on the other hand. What recollections of boy- 
hood and innocence might have been flitting across his brain ? 
What pangs of dim remorse and doubt and shame ? 

" Your sisters must be young women now," Rebecca said, think- 
ing of those girls for the first time, perhaps, since she had left 
them. 

" Don't know, I'm shaw," replied the colonel. " Hullo ! here's 
old Mother Lock. How-dy-do, Mrs. Lock ? Remember me, don't 
you ? Master Rawdon, hey ? Dammy how those old women last ; 
she was a hundred when I was a boy." 

They were going through the lodge-gates kept by old Mrs. Lock, 
whose hand Rebecca insisted upon shaking as she flung open the 
creaking old iron gate, and the carriage passed between the two 
moss-grown pillars surmounted by the dove and serpent. 

" The governor has cut into the timber," Rawdon said, looking 
about, and then was silent — so was Becky. Both of them were 
rather agitated, and thinking of old times. He about Eton, and 
his mother, whom he remembered, a frigid, demure woman, and a 
sister who died, of whom he had been passionately fond ; and how 
he used to thrash Pitt ; and about the little Rawdy at home. And 
Rebecca thought about her own youth, and the dark secrets of 
those early tainted days ; and of her entrance into life by yonder 
gates ; and of Miss Pinkerton and Jos and Amelia. 

The gravel walk and terrace had been scraped quite clean. A 
grand painted hatchment was already over the great entrance, and 
two very solemn and tall personages in black flung open each a leaf of 
the door as the carriage pulled up at the familiar steps. Rawdon 
turned red, and Becky somewhat pale, as they passed through the 
old hall, arm in arm. She pinched her husband's arm as they en- 
tered the oak parlor, where Sir Pitt and his wife were ready to 
receive them. Sir Pitt in black, Lady Jane in black, and my 
Lady Southdown with a large black head-piece of bugles and 
% feathers, which waved on her ladyship's head like an undertaker's 
tray. 

Sir Pitt had judged correctly, that she would not quit the prem- 
ises. She contented herself by preserving a solemn and stony 
silence, when in company of Pitt and his rebellious wife, and by 
frightening the children in the nursery by the ghastly gloom of 
her demeanor. Only a very faint bending of the head-dress and 
plumes welcomed Rawdon and his wife as those prodigals returned 
to their family. 

To say the truth, they were not affected very much one way or other 



46o VANITY FAIR. 

by this coolness. Her ladyship was a person only of secondary 
consideration in their minds just then — they were intent upon the 
reception which the reigning brother and sister would afford them. 

Pitt, with rather a heightened color, went up and shook his 
brother by the hand ; and saluted Rebecca with a hand-shake and 
a very low bow. But Lady Jane took both the hands of her sister- 
in-law and kissed her affectionately. The embrace somehow 
brought tears into the eyes of the little adventuress — which orna- 
ments, as we know, she wore very seldom. The artless mark of 
kindness and confidence touched and pleased her ; and Rawdon, 
encouraged by this demonstration on his sister's part, twirled up 
his mustachios, and took leave to salute Lady Jane with a kiss, 
which caused her ladyship to blush exceedingly. 

" Dev'lish nice little woman. Lady Jane," was his verdict when 
he and his wife were together again. " Pitt's got fat too, and is 
doing the thing handsomely." " He can afford it," said Rebecca, 
and agreed in her husband's further opinion " that the mother-in- 
law was a tremendous old guy — and that the sisters were rather 
well-looking young women." 

They, too, had been summoned from school to attend the fu- 
neral ceremonies. It seemed Sir Pitt Crawley, for the dignity of 
the house and family, had thought right to have about the house as 
many persons in black as could possibly be assembled. All the 
men and maids of the house, the old women of the almshouse, 
whom the elder Sir Pitt had cheated out of a great portion of their 
due, the parish clerk's family, and the special retainers of both 
hall and rectory were habited in sable ; added to these, the under- 
taker's men, at least a score, with crapes and hat-bands, and who 
made a goodly show when the great burying show took place — but 
these are mute personages in our drama ; and having nothing to do 
or say, need occupy a very little space here. 

With regard to her sisters-in-law Rebecca did not attempt to 
forget her former position of governess toward them, but recalled 
it frankly and kindly, and asked them about their studies with 
great gravity, and told them that she had thought of them many 
and many a day, and longed to know of their welfare. In fact you 
would have supposed that ever since she had left them she had not 
ceased to keep them uppermost in her thoughts, and to take the 
tenderest interest in their welfare. So supposed Lady Crawley 
herself and her young sisters. 

" She's hardly changed since eight years," said Miss Rosalind to 
Miss Violet as they were preparing for dinner. 

" Those red-haired women look wonderfully well," replied the 
Other. 

" Her's is much darker than it was ; I think she must dye it," 



THE HALLS OF BECKY'S ANCESTORS. 461 

Miss Rosalind added. " She is stouter, too, and altogether im- 
proved," continued Miss Rosalind, who was disposed to be very 
fat. 

" At least she gives herself no airs, and remembers that she was 
our governess once," Miss Violet said, intimating that it befitted 
all governesses to keep their proper place, and forgetting alto- 
gether that she was granddaughter not only of Sir Walpole Craw- 
ley, but of Mr. Dawson of Mudbury, and so had a coal-scuttle in 
her scutcheon. There are other very well-meaning people whom 
one meets every day in Vanity Fair who are surely equally oblivi- 
ous. 

" It can't be true what the girls at the rectory said, that her 
mother was an opera-dancer " 

" A person can't help their birth," Rosalind replied with great 
liberality. " And I agree with our brother that, as she is in the 
family, of course we are bound to notice her. I am sure Aunt 
Bute need not talk ; she wants to marry Kate to young Hooper, 
the wine-merchant, and absolutely asked him to come to the rec- 
tory for orders." 

" I wonder whether Lady Southdown will go away ; she looked 
very glum upon Mrs. Rawdon," the other said. 

" I wish she would. / won't read the ' Washerwoman of Finch- 
ley Common,' " vowed Violet, and so saying, and avoiding a pas- 
sage at the end of which a certain coffin was placed with a couple 
of watchers, and lights perpetually burning in the closed room, 
these young women came down to the family dinner, for which the 
bell rang as usual. 

But before this Lady Jane conducted Rebecca to the apartments 
prepared for her, which, with the rest of the house, had assumed a 
very much improved appearance of order and comfort during Pitt's 
regency, and here beholding that Mrs. Rawdon's modest little 
trunks had arrived, and were placed in the bed-room and dressing- 
room adjoining, helped her to take off her neat black bonnet and 
cloak, and asked her sister-in-law in what more she could be use- 
ful. 

" What I should like best," said Rebecca, " would be to go to 
the nursery and see your dear little children." On which the two 
ladies looked very kindly at each other, and went to that apart- 
ment hand in hand. 

Becky admired little Matilda, who was not quite four years old, 
as the most charming little love in the world ; and the boy, a little 
fellow of two years — pale, heavy-eyed, and large-headed, she pro- 
nounced to be a perfect prodigy in point of size, intelligence and 
beauty. 

" I wish mamma would not insist on giving him so much medi- 



462 VANITY FAIR. 

cine," Lady Jane said with a sigh. " I often think we should all 
be better without it." And then Lady Jane and her new-found 
friend had one of those confidential medical conversations about 
the children which all mothers, and most women, as I am given to 
understand, delight in. Fifty years ago, and when the present 
writer, being an interesting little boy, was ordered out of the room 
with the ladies after dinner, I remember quite well that their talk 
was chiefly about their ailments ; and putting this question directly 
to two or three since, I have always got from them the acknowledg- 
ment that times are not changed. Let my fair readers remark for 
themselves this very evening when they quit the dessert-table, and 
assemble to celebrate the drawing-room mysteries. Well — in half 
an hour Becky and Lady Jane were close and intimate friends — 
and in the course of the evening her ladyship informed Sir Pitt 
that she thought her new sister-in-law was a kind, frank, unaffected, 
and affectionate young woman. 

And so having easily won the daughter's good-will, the indefa- 
tigable little woman bent herself to conciliate the august Lady 
Southdown. As soon as she found her ladyship alone, Rebecca 
attacked her on the nursery question at once, and said that her 
own little boy was saved, actually saved, by calomel, freely admin- 
istered, when all the physicians in Paris had given the dear child 
up. And then she mentioned how often she had heard of Lady 
Southdown from that excellent man the Reverend Lawrence Grills, 
minister of the chapel in May Fair, which she frequented ; and how 
her views were very much changed by circumstances and misfor- 
tunes ; and how she hoped that a past life spent in worldliness and 
error might not incapacitate her from more serious thought for the 
future. She described how in former days she had been indebted to 
Mr. Crawley for religious instruction, touched upon the " Washer- 
woman of Finchley Common," which she had read with the great- 
est profit, and asked about Lady Emily, its gifted author, now 
Lady Emily Hornblower, at Cape Town, where her husband had 
strong hopes of becoming Bishop of Caffraria. 

But she crowned all, and confirmed herself in Lady Southdown's 
favor, by feeling very much agitated and unwell after the funeral, 
arjd requesting the ladyship's medical advice, which the dowager 
not only gave but, wrapped up in a bedgown, and looking more 
like Lady Macbeth than ever, came privately in the night to 
Becky's room with a parcel of favorite tracts : and a medicine of 
her own composition, which she insisted that Mrs. Rawdon should 
take. 

Becky first accepted the tracts, and began to examine them with 
great interest, engaging the dowager in a conversation concerning 
them and the welfare of her soul, by which means she hoped 



THE HALLS OF BECKY'S ANCESTORS. 



463 



that her body might escape medication. But after the religious 
topics were exhausted, Lady Macbeth would not quit Becky's 
chamber untiUher cup of night-drink was emptied too ; and poor 
Mrs. Rawdon was compelled actually to assume a look of grati- 
tude, and to swallow the medicine under the unyielding old dow- 
ager's nose, who left her victim finally with a benediction. 

It did not much comfort Mrs. Rawdon ; her countenance was 
very queer when Rawdon came in and heard what had happened ; 
and his explosions of laughter were as loud as usual, when Becky, 
with a fun she could not disguise, even though it was at her ow^ 
expense, described -^-^^^^ 

the occurrence, and 
how she had been 
victimized by Lady 
Southdown. Lord 
Steyne, and his son 
in London, had 
many a laugh over 
the story, when Raw- 
don and his wife re- 
turned to their quar- 
ters in May Fair. 
Becky acted the 
whole scene for 
them. She put on 
a night-cap and 
gown. She preach- 
ed a great sermon 
in the true serious 
manner ; she lec- 
tured on the virtue 
of the medicine 
which she pretended 
to administer, with a 
gravity of imitation 
so perfect that you 
would have thought 
it was the countess's 
own Roman nose through which she snuffled. "Give us a Lady 
Southdown and the black dose,-' was a constant Q.ry among the 
folks in Becky's little drawing-room in May Fair. And for the 
first time in her life the dowager Countess of Southdown was 
made amusing. 

Sir Pitt remembered the testimonies of respect and veneration 
which Rebecca had paid personally to himself in early days, and 




464 VANITY FAIR, 

was tolerably well disposed toward her^ The marriage, ill-advised 
as it was, had improved Rawdon very much — that was clear from 
the colonel's altered habits and demeanor — and had it not been a 
lucky union as regarded Pitt himself ? The cunning diplomatist 
smiled inwardly as he owned that he owed his fortune to it, and 
acknowledged that he at least ought not to cry out against it. His 
satisfaction was not removed by Rebecca's own statements, behav- 
ior, and conversation. 

She doubled the deference which before had charmed him, call- 
ing out his conversational powers in such a manner as to quite sur- 
prise Pitt himself, who, always inclined to respect his own talents, 
admired them the more when Rebecca pointed them out to him. 
With her sister-in-law, Rebecca was satisfactorily able to prove 
that it was Mrs. Bute Crawley who brought about the marriaga 
which she afterward so calumniated; that it was Mrs. Bute's ava- 
rice — who hoped to gain all Miss Crawley's fortune, and deprive 
Rawdon of his aunt's favor — which caused and invented all the 
wicked reports against Rebecca. " She succeeded in making us 
poor," Rebecca said, with an air of angelical patience; "but how 
can I be angry with a woman who has given me one of the best 
husbands in the world .? And has not her own avarice been suf- 
ficiently punished by the ruin of her own hopes, and the loss of 
the property by which she set so much store ? Poor ! " she cried. 
" Dear Lady Jane^ what care we for poverty ? I am used to it 
from childhood, and I am often thankful that Miss Crawley's 
money has gone to restore the splendor of the noble old family of 
which I am so proud to be a member. I am sure Sir Pitt will 
make a much better use of it than Rawdon would." 

All these speeches were reported to Sir Pitt by the most faithful 
of wives, and increased the favorable impression which Rebecca 
made ; so much so that on the third day after the funeral the fam- 
ily party were at dinner, Sir Pitt Crawley, carving fowls at the head 
of the table, actually said to Mrs. Rawdon, "Ahem ! Rebecca, may 
I give you a wing ? " — a speech which made the little woman's eyes 
sparkle with pleasure. 

While Rebecca was prosecuting the above schemes and hopes, 
and Pitt Crawley arranging the funeral ceremonial and other 
matters connected with his future progess and dignity, and Lady 
Jane busy with her nursery, as far as her mother would let her, and 
the sun rising and setting, and the clock-tower bell of the hall ring- 
ing to dinner and to prayers as usual, the body of the late owner 
of Queen's Crawley lay in the apartment which he had occupied, 
watched unceasingly by the professional attendants who were 
epgaged for that rite. A woman or two, and three or four under- 



THE HALL^ OF BECKY'S ANCESTORS. 465 

laker's men, the best whom Southampton could furnish, dressed in 
black, and of a proper stealthy and tragical demeanor, had charge of 
the remains which they watched turn about, having the house- 
keeper's room for their place of rendezvous when off duty, where 
they played at cards in privacy and drank their beer. 

TSe members of the family and servants of the house kept away 
from the gloomy spot, where the bones of the descendant of an 
ancient line of knights and gentlemen lay, awaiting their final 
consignment to the family crypt. No regrets attended them, save 
those of the poor woman' who had hoped to be Sir. Pitt's wife 
and widow, and who had fled in disgrace from the hall over 
which she had so nearly been a ruler. Beyond her and a 
favorite old pointer he had, and between whom and himself an 
attachment subsisted during the period of his imbecility, the old 
man had not a single friend to mourn him, having indeed, during 
the whole course of his life, never taken the least pains to secure 
one. Could the best and kindest of us who depart from the 
earth have an opportunity of revisiting it, I suppose he or she 
(assuming that any Vanity Fair feelings subsist in the sphere 
whithe^ v/e are bound) would have a pang of mortification at find- 
ing how soon our survivors were consoled. And so Sir Pitt was for- 
gotten — like the kindest and best of us — only a few weeks sooner. 

Those who will may follow his remains to the grave, whither 
they were borne on the appointed day, in the most becoming 
manner, the family in black coaches, with their handkerchiefs up 
to their noses, ready for the tears which did not come ; the under- 
taker and his gentlemen in deep tribulation ; the select tenantry 
mourning out of compliment to the new landlord ; the neighbor- 
ing gentry's carriages, at three miles an hour, empty, and in 
profound affliction ; the parson speaking out the formula about 
'' our dear brother departed." As long as we have a man's body, 
we play our vanities upon it, surrounding it with humbug and 
ceremonies, laying it in state, and packing it up in gilt nails and 
velvet ; and we finish our duties by placing over it a stone, written 
all over with lies. Bute's curate, a smart young fellow from 
Oxford, and Sir Pitt Crawley, composed between them an appro- 
priate Latin epitaph for the late lamented baronet ; and the 
former preached a classical sermon ; extorting the survivors not to 
give way to grief, and informing them in the most respectful terms 
that they also would be one day called upon to pass that gloomy 
and mysterious portal which had just closed upon the remains of 
their lamented brother. Then the tenantry mounted on horse- 
back again, or stayed and refreshed themselves at the Crawley 
Arms. Then, after a lunch in the servants' hall at Queen's Craw- 
ley, the gentry's carriages wheeled off to their different destina- 
30 



466 VANITY FAIR. 

tions : then the undertaker's men, taking the ropes, palls, velvets, 
ostrich feathers, and other mortuary properties, clambered up on 
the roof of the hearse and rode off to Southampton. Their faces 
relapsed into a natural expression as the horses, clearing the 
lodge-gates, got into a brisker trot on the open road ; and squads 
of them might have been seen, speckling with black the public- 
house entrances, with pewter-pots flashing in the sunshine. Sir 
Pitt's invalid chair was wheeled away into a tool-house in the 
garden ; the old pointer used to howl sometimes at first, but these 
were the only accents of grief which were heard in the hall of 
which Sir Pitt Crawley, baronet, had been master for some three- 
score years. 

As the birds were pretty plentiful, and partridge-shooting is as it 
were the duty of an English gentleman of statesmanlike propen- 
sities. Sir Pitt Crawley, the first shock of grief over, went out a 
little, and partook of that diversion in a white hat with crape 
round it. The sight of those fields of stubble and turnips, now his 
own, gave him many secret joys. Sometimes, and with an 
exquisite humility, he took no gun, but went out with a peaceful 
bamboo cane ; Rawdon, his big brother, and the keepers blazing 
away at his side. Pitt's money and acres had a great effect upon 
his brother. The penniless colonel became quite obsequious and 
respectful to the head of his house, and despised the milksop Pitt 
no longer. Rawdon listened with sympathy to his senior's 
prospects of planting and draining ; gave his advice about the 
stables and cattle, rode over to Mudbury to look at a mare, which 
he thought would carry Lady Jane, and offered to break her, etc. ; 
the rebellious dragoon was quite humbled and subdued, and became 
a most creditable younger brother. He had constant bulletins 
from Miss Briggs in London respecting little Rawdon, who was 
left behind there ; who sent messages of his own. " I am very 
well," he wrote. " I hope you are very well. I hope mamma is 
well. The pony is very well. Grey takes me to ride in the park. 
I can canter. I met the little boy who rode before. He cried 
when he cantered. I do not cry." Rawdon read these letters to 
his brother and Lady Jane, who was delighted with them. The 
baronet promised to take charge of the lad at school ; and his 
kind-hearted wife gave Rebecca a bank-note, begging her to buy a 
present with it for her little nephew. 

One day followed another, and the ladies of the house passed 
their life in those calm pursuits and amusements which satisfy 
country ladies. Bells rang to meals and to prayers. The young 
ladies took exercise on the pianoforte every morning after break- 
fast, Rebecca giving them the benefit of her instruction. Then 



\' 



THE HALLS OF BECKY'S ANCESTORS. 467 

they put on thick shoes and walked in the park or shrubberies, or 
beyond the palings into the village, descending upon the cottages, 
with Lady Southdown's medicine and tracts for the sick people 
there. Lady Southdown drove out in a pony-chaise, when Rebecca 
would take her place by the dowager's side, and listen to her sol- 
emn talk with the utmost interest. She sang Handel and Haydn 
to the family of evenings, and engaged in a large piece of worsted 
work, as if she had been born to the business, and as if this kind 
of life was to continue with her till she should sink to the grave in 
a polite old age, leaving regrets and a great quantity of consols 
behind her — as if there were not cares and duns, schemes, shifts, 
and poverty, waiting outside the park gates, to pounce upon her 
when she issued into the world again. 

" It isn't difficult to be a country gentleman's wife," Rebecca 
thought. " I think I could be a good woman if I had five thou- 
sand a year. I could dawdle about in the nursery, and count the 
apricots on the wall. 1 could water plants in a green-house, and 
pick off dead leaves from the geraniums. I could ask old 
women about their rheumatisms, and order half a crown's worth of 
soup for the poor. I shouldn't miss it much out of live thousand 
a year. I could even drive out ten miles to dine at a neighbor's, 
and dress in the fashions of the year before last. I could go to 
church and keep awake in the great family pew ; or go to sleep 
behind the curtains, with my veil down, if I only had practice. 
I could pay everybody, if I had but the money. This is what the 
conjurers here pride themselves upon doing. They look down 
with pity upon us miserable sinners who have none. They think 
themselves generous if they give our children a five-pound note, 
and us contemptible if we are without one." And who knows but 
Rebecca was right in her speculations — and that it was only a 
question of money and fortune which made the difference between 
her and an honest woman ? If you take temptations into account, 
who is to say that he is better than his neighbor ? A comfortable 
career of prosperity, if it does not make people honest, at least 
keeps them so. An alderman coming from a turtle feast will not 
step out of his carriage to steal a leg of mutton ; but put him to 
starve, and see if he will not purloin a loaf. Becky consoled 
herself by so balancing the chances and equalizing the distribution 
of good and evil in the world. 

The old haunts, the old fields and woods, the copses, ponds 
and gardens, the rooms of the old house where she had spent a 
couple of years seven years ago, were all carefullv revisited by 
her. She had been young there, or comparatively so, for she 
forgot the time when she ever was young — but she remembered 
her thoughts and feelings seven years back, and contrasted them 



468 VANITY FAIR. 

with those she had at present, now that she had seen the world 
and Hved with great people, and raised herself far beyond her 
original humble station. 

" I have passed beyond it because I have brains," Becky thought, 
" and almost all the rest of the world are fools. I could not go 
back, and consort with those people now, w^hom I used to meet in 
my father's studio. Lords come up to my door with stars and 
garters instead of poor artists with screws of tobacco in their 
pockets. I have a gentleman for my husband, and an earl's 
daughter for my sister, in the very house where I was little better 
than a servant a few years ago. But am I much better to do 
now in the world than I was when I was the poor painter's 
daughter, and wheedled the grocer round the corner for sugar and 
tea ? Suppose I had married Francis, who was so fond of me — I 
couldn't have been much poorer than I am now. Heigho ! I wish 
I could exchange my position in society, and all my relations for a 
snug sum in the three per cent, consols ; " for so it was that Becky 
felt the vanity of human affairs, and it was in those securities that 
she would have liked to cast anchor. 

It may perhaps have struck her that to be honest and humble, 
to have done her duty, and to have marched straightforward on 
her way, would have brought her as near happiness as that path 
by which she was striving to attain it. But — just as the children 
at Queen's Crawley went round the room where the body of their 
father lay — if ever Becky had these thoughts, she was accustomed 
to walk round them and not look in. She eluded them, and 
despised them — or at least she was committed to the other path 
from which retreat was now impossible. And for my part, I 
believe that remorse is the least active of all a man's moral senses 
— the very easiest to be deadened when wakened ; and in some 
never wakened at all. We grieve at being found out, and at the 
idea .of shame or punishment; but the mere sense of wrong makes 
very few people unhappy in Vanity Fair. 

So Rebecca, during her stay at Queen's Crawley, made as many 
friends of the mammon of unrighteousness as she could possibly 
bring under control. Lady Jane and her husband bade her fare- 
well with the warmest demonstrations of good-will. They looked, 
forward with pleasure to the time when, the family house in Gaunt 
Street being repaired and beautified, they were to meet again in 
London. Lady Southdown made her up a packet of medicine, 
and sent a letter by her to the Rev. Lawrence Grills, exhorting 
that gentleman to save the brand who "honored " the letter from 
the burning. Pitt accompanied them with four horses in the 
carriage to Mudbury, having sent on their baggage in a cart 
previously, accompanied with loads of game. 



THE HALLS OF BECKY'S ANCESTORS. 469 

" How happy you will be to see your darling little boy again ! " 
Lady Crawley said, .taking leave of her kinswoman. 

" Oh, so happy ! " said Rebecca, throwing up the green eyes. 
She was immensely happy to be free of the place, and yet loth to 
go. Queen's Crawley was abominably stupid ; and yet the air 
there was somehow purer than that which she had been accus- 
tomed to breathe. Everybody had been dull, but had been kind 
in their way. " It is all the influence of a long course of three per 
cents." Becky said to herself, and was right very likely. 

However, the London lamps flashed joyfully as the stage rolled 
into Piccadilly, and Briggs had made a beautiful fire in Curzon 
Street, and little Rawdon was up to welcome back his papa and 
mamma. 



\ 



470 VANITY FAIR, 




CHAPTER XLII. 

WHICH TREATS OF THE OSBORNE FAMILY. 

ONSIDFRABLE time has elapsed since we have 
seen our respectable friend, old Mr. Osborne,, 
of Russell Square. He has not been the hap- 
piest of mortals since last we met him. 
Events have occurred which have not im- 
proved his temper, and in more instances than 
one he has not been allowed to have his. 
own way. To be thwarted in this reasonable 
desire was always very injurious to the old 
gentleman ; and resistance became doubly exasperating w^hen 
gout, age, loneliness, and the force of many disappointments- 
combined to weigh him down. His stiff black hair began to grow 
quite white soon after his son's death ; his face grew redder; his 
hands trembled more and more as he poured out his glass of port 
wine. He led his clerks a dire life in the city ; his family at 
home were not much happier. I doubt if Rebecca, whom wx have 
seen piously praying for consols, would have exchanged her 
poverty and the dare-devil excitement and chances of her life for 
Osborne's money, and the humdrum gloom which enveloped him. 
He had proposed for Miss Swartz, but had been rejected scorn- 
fully by the partisans of that lady, who married her to a young 
sprig of Scotch nobility. He was a man to have married a woman 
out of low life, and bullied her dreadfully afterward ; but no per- 
son presented herself suitable to his taste ; and instead he 
tyrannized over his unmarried daughter at home. She had a fine 
carriage and fine horses, and sat at the head of a table loaded 
with the grandest plate. She had a check-book, a prize footman 
to follow her when she walked, unlimited credit, and bows and 
compliments from all the tradesmen, and all the appurtenances of 
an heiress ; but she spent a woful time. The little charity-girls at the 
Foundling, the sweeperess at the crossing, the poorest under- 
kitchen maid in the servants' hall, was happy compared with that, 
unfortunate and now middle-aged young lady. 

Frederick Bullock, Esq, of the house of Bullock, Hulker, and 
Bullock, had married Maria Osborne, not without a great deal of 
difficulty and grumbling on Mr. Bullock's part. George being. 



WHICH TREATS OF THE OSBORNE FAMILY. 471 

dead and cut out of his father's will, Frederick insisted that the 
half of the old gentleman's property should be settled upon his 
Maria, and, indeed, for a long time, refused " to come to the 
scratch " (it was Mr. Frederick's own expression) on any other 
terms. Osborne said Fred had agreed to take his daughter with 
twenty thousand, and he should bind himself to no more. " Fred 
might take it and welcome, or leave it, and go and be hanged." 
Fred, whose hopes had been raised when George had been disin- 
herited, thought himself infamously swindled by the old merchant, 
and for some time made as if he would break oif the match alto- 
gether. Osborne withdrew his account from Bullock and Hul- 
ker's, went on 'Change with a horsewhip which he swore he would 
lay across the back of a certain scoundrel that should be nameless, 
and demeaned himself in his usual violent manner. Jane Osborne 
condoled with her sister Maria, during this family feud. " I 
always told you, Maria, that it was your money he loved, and not 
you," she said soothingly. 

" He selected me and my money at any rate ; he didn't choose 
you and yours," replied Maria, tossing up her head. 

The rupture was, however, only temporary. Fred's father and 
senior partners counseled him to take Maria, even with the twenty 
thousand settled, half down, and half at the death of ]Mr. Osborne, 
with the chances of the further division of the property. So he 
" knuckled down " again, to use his own phrase ; and sent old 
Hulker with peaceable overtures to Osborne. It was his father, 
he said, who would not hear of the match, and had made the diffi- 
culties ; he was most anxious to keep the engagement. The 
excuse was sulkily accepted by Mr. Osborne. Hulker and Bullock 
were a high family of the cit}^ aristocracy, and connected with the 
" nobs " at the West End. It was something for the old man to 
be able to say, " My son, sir, of the house of Hulker, Bullock and Co., 
sir ; my daughter's cousin. Lady Mar}- Mango, sir, daughter of the 
Right Hon. the Earl of Castlemouldy." In his imagination he 
saw his house peopled by the " nobi." So he forgave young 
Bullock, and consented that the marriage should take place. 

It was a grand aifair — the bridegroom's relatives giving the 
breakfast, their habitations being near St. George's, Hanover 
Square, where the business took place. The " nobs of the West 
End " were invited, and many of them signed the book. Mr. 
Mango and Lady Mar}- Mango were there, with the dear young 
Gwendoline and Guinever Mango as bridesmaids ; ColonefBlud- 
yer of the Dragoon Guards (eldest son of the house of Bludyer 
Brothers, Mincing Lane) another cousin of the bridegroom, and 
the Honorable Mrs. Bludyer; the Honorable George Boulter, 
Lord Levant's son, and his lady, Miss ]\Iango that was : Lord 



472 VANIl'Y FAIR. 

Viscount Castletoddy ; Honorable James McMuU and Mrs. 
McMull (formerly Miss Swartz), and a host of fashionables, who 
have all married into Lombard Street, and done a great deal to 
ennoble Cornhill. 

The young couple had a house near Berkeley Square, and a 
small villa at Roehampton, among the banking colony there. 
Fred was considered to have made rather a mesalliance by the ladies 
of his family, whose grandfather had been in a Charity School, and 
who were allied through the husbands with some of the best blood 
in England. And Maria was bound by superior pride and great 
care in the composition of her visiting-book to make up for the 
defects of birth ; and felt it her duty to see her father and lister 
as little as possible. 

That she should utterly break with the old man, who had still 
so many scores of thousand pounds to give away, is absurd to 
suppose. Fred Bullock would never allow her to do that. But 
she was still young and incapable of hiding her feelings ; and by 
inviting her papa and sister to her third-rate parties, and behaving 
very coldly to them when they came, and by avoiding Russell 
Square, and indiscreetly begging her father to quit that odious 
vulgar place, she did more harm than all Frederick's diplomacy 
could repair, and periled her chance of her inheritance like a 
giddy, heedless creature as she was. 

" So Russell Square is not good enough for Mrs. Maria, hay ? " 
said the old gentleman, rattling up the carriage-windows as he and 
his daughter drove away one night from Mrs. Frederick Bullock's 
after dinner. " So she invites her father and sister to a second 
day's dinner (if those sides, or ontrys, as she calls 'em, wern't 
served yesterday, I'm d — d), and to meet city folks and littery 
men, and keeps the earls and the ladies and the honorables to her- 
self. Honorables ? Damn honorables. I am a plain British 
merchant, I am ; and could buy the beggarly hounds over and 
over. Lords, indeed ! — why, at one of her swai^reys I saw one of 
'em speak to a dam fiddler — a fellar I despise. And they won't 
come to Russell Square, won't they ? Why, I'll lay my hfe I've 
got a better glass of wdne, and pay a better figure for it, and can 
show a handsomer service of silver, and can lay a better dinner 
on my mahogany than ever they see on theirs — the cringing, 
sneaking, stuck-up fools. Drive on quick, James ; I want to get. 
back to Russell Square — ha, ha ! " and he sank back into the cor- 
ner with a furious laugh. With such reflections on his own supe- 
rior merit, it was the custom of the old gentleman not unfrequently 
to console himself. 

Jane Osborne could not but concur in these opinions respecting 
her sister's conduct ; and when Mrs. Frederick's first-born, Fred- 



WHICH TREATS OF THE OSBORNE FAMILY. 473 

erick Augustus Howard Stanley Devereux Bullock, was born, old 
Osborne, who was invited to the christening and to be godfather, 
contented himself with sending the child a gold cup, with twenty 
guineas inside it for the nurse. " That's more than any of your 
lords will give, 77/ warrant," he said, and refused to attend at the 
ceremony. 

The splendor of the gift, however, caused great satisfaction to 
the house of Bullock. Maria thought that her father was very 
much pleased with her, and Frederick augured the best for his 
little son and heir. 

One can fancy the pangs with which Miss Osborne in her soli- 
tude in Russell Square read the Morning Post, where her sister's 
name occurred every now and then, in the articles headed "Fash- 
ionable Reunions," and where she had an opportunity of reading 
a description of Mrs. F. Bullock's costume, when presented at the 
drawing-room by Lady Frederica Bullock. Jane's own life, as we 
have said, admitted of no such grandeur. It was an awful exist- 
ence. She had to get up of black winter's mornings to make 
breakfast for her scowling old father, who would have turned the 
whole house out of doors if his tea had not been ready at half-past 
eight. She remained silent opposite to him, listening to the urn 
hissing, and sitting in tremor while the parent read his paper and 
consumed his accustomed portion of muffins and tea. At half-past 
nine he rose and went to the city, and she was almost free till din- 
ner-time to make visitations in the kitchen, and to scold the serv- 
ants ; to drive abroad and descend upon the tradesmen, who were 
prodigiously respectful ; to leave her cards and her papa's at the 
great glum respectable house of their city friends ; or to sit alone 
in the large drawing-room, expecting visitors ; and working at a 
huge piece of worsted by the fire, on the sofa, hard by the great 
Iphigenia clock, which ticked and tolled with mournful loudness in 
the dreary room. The great glass over the mantel-piece, faced by the 
other great console glass at the opposite end of the room, increased 
and multiplied between them the brown holland bag in which the 
chandelier hung ; until you saw these brown holland bags fading 
away in endless perspectives, and this apartment of Miss Osborne's 
seemed the center of a system of drawing-rooms. When she 
removed the cordovan leather from the grand piano, and ventured 
to play a few notes on it, it sounded with a mournful sadness, 
startling the dismal echoes of the house. George's picture was 
gone, and laid up stairs in a lumber-room in the garret ; and 
though there was a consciousness of him, and father and daughter 
often instinctively knew that they were thinking of him, no men- 
tion was ever made of the brave and once darling son. 

At five o'clock Mr. Osborne came back to his dinner, which he 



474 



VANITY FAIR. 



and his daughter took in silence (seldom broken, except when he 
swore and was savage, if the cooking was not to his liking), or 
which they. shared twice in a month with a party of dismal friends 
of Osborne's rank and age. Old Dr. Gulp and his lady from 
Bloomsbury Square ; old Mr. Frowser, the attorney from Bedford 
Row, a very great man, and from his business, hand-in-glove with 
the " nobs at the West End ; " old Colonel Livermore, of the Bom- 
bay Army, and Mrs. Livermore, from Upper Bedford Place ; old 
Sergeant Toffy and Mrs. Toffy ; and sometimes old Sir Thomas 
Coffin and Lady Coffin, from Bedford Square, Sir Thomas was 
celebrated as a hanging judge, and the particular tawny port was 
produced when he dined with Mr. Osborne. 

These people and their like gave the pompous Russell Square 
merchant pompous dinners back again. They had solemn rubbers 
of whist, when they went up stairs after drinking, and their car- 
riages were called at half-past ten. Many rich people, whom we 
poor devils are in the habit of env3^ing, lead contentedly an exist- 
ence like that above described. Jane Osborne scarcely ever met 
a man under sixty, and almost the only bachelor who appeared in 
their society was Mr. Smirk, the celebrated ladies' doctor. 

I can't say that nothing had occurred to disturb the monotony 
of this awful existence ; the fact is, there had been a secret in poor 
Jane's life which had made her father more savage and morose 
than even nature, pride, and over-feeding had made him. This 
secret was connected with Miss Wirt, who had a cousin an artist, 
Mr. Smee, very celebrated since as a portrait-painter and R.A., 
but who once was glad enough to give drawing-lessons to ladies 
of fashion. Mr. Smee has forgotten where Russell Square is now, 
but he was glad enough to visit it in the year 1818, when Miss 
Osborne had instruction from him. 

Smee (formerly a pupil of Sharpe of Frith Street, a dissolute, 
irregular, and unsuccessful man, but a man with great knowledge 
of his art) being the cousin of Miss Wirt, we say, and introduced 
by her to Miss Osborne, whose hand and heart were still free after 
various incomplete love affairs, felt a great attachment for this 
lady, and it is believed inspired one in her bosom. Miss Wirt was 
the confidant of this intrigue. I know not w^hether she used to 
leave the room where the master and his pupil were painting, in or- 
der to give them an opportunity for exchanging those vows and sen- 
timents which can not be uttered advantageously in the presence of 
a third party ; I know not whether she hoped that should her 
cousin succeed in carrying off the rich merchant's daughter, he 
would give Miss Wirt a portion of the wealth which she had ena- 
bled him to win — all that is certain is, that Mr. Osborne got some 
hint cf the transaction, came back from the city abruptly, and 



WHICH TREATS OF THE OSBORNE FAMILY. 475 

entered the drawing-room with his bamboo cane ; found the 
painter, the pupil, and the companion all looking exceedingly pale 
there ; turned the former out of doors with menaces that he would 
break every bone in his skin, and half an hour afterward dismissed 
Miss Wirt likewise, kicking her trunks down the stairs, trampling 
on her band-boxes, and shaking his fists at her hackney coach as 
it bore her away. 

Jane Osborne kept her bed room for many days. She was not 
allowed to have a companion afterward. Her father swore to her 
that she should not have a shilling of his money if she made any 
match without his concurrence ; and as he wanted a woman to 
keep his house, he did not choose that she should marry ; so that 
she was obliged to give up all projects with which Cupid had 
any share. During her papa's life, then, she resigned herself to 
the manner of existence here described, and was content to be an 
old maid. Her sister, meanwhile, was having children with finer 
names every year — and the intercourse between the two grew 
fainter continually. " Jane and I do not move in the same sphere 
of life," Mrs. Bullock said. "I regard her as a sister, of course " 
— ^which means — what does it mean when a lady says that she re- 
gards Jane as a sister ? 

It has been described how the Misses Dobbin lived with their 
father at a fine villa at Denmark Hill, where there were beautiful 
graperies and peach-trees which delighted little Georgy Osborne. 
The Misses Dobbin, who drove often to Brompton to see our dear 
Amelia, came sometimes to Russell Square too, to pay a visit to 
their old acquaintance Miss Osborne. I believe it was in conse- 
quence of the commands of their brother the major in India 
(for whom their papa had a prodigious respect), that they paid at- 
tention to Mrs. George ; for the major, the godfather and guardian 
of Amelia's little boy, still hoped that the child's grandfather might 
be induced to relent toward him, and acknowledge him for the sake 
of his son. The Misses Dobbin kept Miss Osborne acquainted 
with the state of Amelia's affairs ; how she was living with her 
father and mother; how poor they were ; how they wondered what 
men, and such men as their brother and dear Captain Osborne, 
could find in such an insignificant little chit ; how she was still, as 
heretofore, a namby-pamby milk-and-water affected creature — but 
how the boy was really the noblest little boy ever seen — for the 
hearts of all women warm toward young children, and the 
sourest spinster is kind to them. 

One day, after great entreaties on the part of the Misses Dobbin, 
Amelia allowed little George to go and pass a day with them at 
Denmark Hill — a part of which day she spent herself in writing to 



476 VANITY FAIR. 

the major in India. She congratulated him on the happy news 
which his sisters had just conveyed to her. She prayed for his 
prosperity, and that of the bride he had chosen. She thanked 
him for a thousand thousand kind offices and proofs of steadfast 
friendship to her in her affliction. She told him the last news about 
little Georgy, and how he was gone to spend that very day with 
his sisters in the country. She underlined the letter a great deal, 
and she signed herself affectionately his friend, AmeHa Osborne. 
She forgot to send any message of kindness to Lady O'Dowd as 
her wont was — and did not mention Glorvina by name, and only in 
italics, as the major's bride^ for whom she begged blessings. But 
the news of the marriage removed the reserve which she had kept 
up toward him. She was glad to be able to own and feel how 
warmly and gratefully she regarded him — and as for the idea of 
being jealous of Glorvina (Glorvina, indeed !) AmeHa would have 
scouted it, if an angel from heaven had hinted it to her. 

That night, when Georgy came back in the pony-carriage in 
which he rejoiced and in which he was driven by Sir Wm. Dobbin's 
old coachman, he had round his neck a fine gold chain and watch. 
He said an old lady, not pretty, had given it to him, who cried and 
kissed him a great deal. But he didn't like her. He liked grapes 
very much. And he only liked his mamma. Amelia shrank and 
started; the timid soul felt a presentiment of terror when she 
heard that the relations of the child's father had seen him. 

Miss Osborne came back to give her father his dinner. He had 
made a good speculation in the city, and was rather in a good 
humor that day, and chanced to remark the agitation under which 
she labored. " What's the matter, Miss Osborne ? " he deigned 
to say. 

The woman burst into tears. " O sir," she said, " I've seen 
little George. He is as beautiful as an angel — and so like him ! " 
The old man opposite to her did not say a word, but flushed up, 
and began to tremble in every limb. 



IN WHICH THE READER DOUBLES THE CAPE. 477 



CHAPTER XLIII. 

IN WHICH THE READER HAS TO DOUBLE THE CAPE. 

HE astonished reader must be call- 
ed upon to transport himself 
ten thousand miles to the mili- 
tary station of Bundlegunge, in 
the Madras division of our In- 
dian empire, where our gallant 
old friends of the — th regiment 
are quartered under the com- 
mand of the brave oolonel, Sir 
Michael O'Dowd. Time has 
dealt kindly with that stout offi- 
cer, as it does ordinarily with 
men who have good stomachs 
and good tempers, and are not 
perplexed over much by fatigue 
of the brain. The colonel plays 
a good knife and fork at tifhn, 
and resumes those weapons with 
great success at dinner. He 
smokes his hookah after both 
meals, and puffs as quietly while 
his wife scolds him, as he did 
under the fire of the French at 
Waterloo. Age and heat have not diminished the activity or the 
eloquence of the descendant of the Malonys and the Molloys. Her 
ladyship, our old acquaintance, is as much at home at Madras as 
at Brussels — in the cantonment as under the tents. On the march 
you saw her at the head of the regiment seated on a royal elephant, 
a noble sight. Mounted on that beast, she has been into action 
with tigers in the jungle ; she has been received by native princes 
who have welcomed her and Glorvina into the recesses of their, 
zenanas and offered her shawls and jewels which it went to her 
heart to refuse. The sentries of all arms salute her wherever she 
makes her appearance ; and she touches her hat gravely to their 
salutation. Lady O'Dowd is one of the greatest ladies in the 
Presidency of Madras — her quarrel with Lady Smith, wife of Sir 




478 VANITY FATE, 

Minos Smith the puisne judge, is still remembered by some at 
Madras, when the colonel's lady snapped her fingers in the judge's 
lady's face, and said she'd never walk behind ever a beggarly civ- 
ilian. Even now, though it is five and twenty years ago, people 
remember Lady O'Dowd performed a jig at Government House, 
where she danced down two aides-de-camp, a major of Madras 
cavalry, and two gentlemen of the civil service ; and, persuaded by 
Major Dobbin, C. B., second in command of the — th, to retire to 
the supper-room, lassata 7iondufn satiata recessit. 

Peggy O'Dowd is indeed the same as ever ; kind in act and 
thought ; impetuous in temper ; eager to command; a tyrant over her 
Michael; a dragon among all the ladies of the regiment; a mother 
to all the young men, whom she tends in their sickness, defimds in 
all their scrapes, and with whom Lady Peggy is immensely popular. 
But the subalterns' and captains' ladies (the major is unmarried) 
cabal against her a good deal. They say that Glorvina gives her- 
self airs, and that Peggy herself is intolerably domineering. She 
interfered with a little congregation which Mrs. Kirk had got up, 
and laughed the young men away from her sermons, stating that a 
soldier's wife had no business to be a parson : that Mrs. Kirk 
would be much better mending her husband's clothes ; and, if the 
regiment wanted sermons, that she had the finest in the world, 
those of her uncle, the dean. She abruptly put a termination to a 
flirtation which Lieutenant Stubble of the regiment had commenced 
with the surgeon's wife, threatening to come down upon Stubble 
for the money which he had borrowed from her (for the young fel- 
low was still of an extravagant turn) unless he broke off at once 
and went to the Cape, on sick leave. On the other hand, she 
housed and sheltered Mrs. Posky, who fled from her bungalow one 
night pursued by her infuriate husband, wielding his second brandy 
bottle, and actually carried Posky through the delirium tremens, 
and broke him of the habit of drinking, which had grown upon 
that ofiicer, as all evil habits will grow upon men. In a word, in 
adversity she was the best of comforters, in good fortune the most 
troublesome of friends ; having a perfectly good opinion of 1 erself 
always and an indomitable resolution to have her own way. 

Among other points, she had made up her mind that Glorvina 
should marry our old friend Dobbin. Mrs. O'Dowd knew the 
major's expectations and appreciated his good qualities and the 
high character which he enjoyed in his profession. Glorvina, a 
very handsome, fresh-colored, black-haired, blue-eyed young lady, 
who could ride a horse, or play a sonata with any girl out of the 
County Cork, seemed to.be the very person destined to insure 
Dobbin's happiness — much more than that poor, good little weak- 
spur'ted Amelia, about whom he used to take on so — " Look at 



IN WHICH THE READER DOUBLES THE CAPE. 479 

Glorvina enter a room," Mrs. O'Dowd would say, " and compare 
her with that poor Mrs. Osborne, who couldn't say boo to a goose. 
She'd be worthy of you, major — you're a quiet man yourself, and 
want some one to talk for ye. And though she does not come of 
such good blood as the Malonys or MoUoys, let me tell ye, she's of 
an ancient family that any nobleman might be proud to marry 
into." 

But before she had come to such a resolution, and determined to 
subjugate Major Dobbin by her endearments, it must be owned 
that Glorvina had practiced them a good deal elsewhere. She 
had had a season in Dublin, and who knows how many in Cork, 
Killarney, and Mallow ? She had flirted with all the marriageable 
officers whom the depots of her country afforded, and all the 
bachelor squires who seemed eligible. She had been engaged to 
be married a half-score times in Ireland, besides the clergyman at 
Bath who used her so ill. She had flirted all the way to Madras 
with the captain and chief-mate of the Ramchunder East India- 
man, and had a season at the Presidency with her brother and 
Mrs. O'Dowd, who was staying there, while the major of the reg- 
iment was in command at the station. Everybody admired her 
there ; everybody danced with her ; but no one proposed who was 
worth the marrying ; one or two exceedingly young subalterns 
sighed after her, and a beardless civilian or two ; but she rejected 
these as beneath her pretensions ; and other and younger virgins 
than Glorvina were married before her. There are women, and 
handsome women too, who have this fortune in life. They fall in 
love with the utmost generosity : they ride and walk with half the 
army list, though they draw near to forty, and yet the Misses 
O'Grady are the Misses O'Grady still ; Glorvina persisted that but 
for Lady O'Dowd's unlucky quarrel with the judge's lady, she 
would have made a good match at Madras, where old Mr. Chutney, 
who was at the head of the civil service (and who afterward married 
Miss Dolby, a young lady only thirteen years of age, who had just 
arrived from school in Europe), was just at the point of proposing 
to her. 

Well, although Lady O'Dowd and Glorvina quarreled a great 
number of times every day, and upon almost every conceivable 
subject — indeed, if Mick O'Dowd had not possessed the temper of 
an angel two such women constantly about his ears would have 
driven him out of his senses — yet they agreed between themselves 
on this point, that Glorvina should marry Major Dobbin, and were 
determined that the major should have no rest until the arrange- 
ment was brought about. Undismayed by forty or fifty previous 
defeats, Glorvina laid siege to him. She sang Irish melodies at 
him unceasingly. She asked him so frequently and pathetically, 



48o VANITY FAIR. 

Will ye come to the bower ? that it is a wonder how any man of feeling 
eould have resisted the invitation. She was never tired of inquiring, 
if sorrow had his young days faded ; and was ready to listen and 
weep like Desdemona at the stories of his dangers and his cam- 
paigns. It has been said that our honest and dear old friend used 
to perform on the flute in private ; Glorvina insisted upon having 
duets with him, and Lady O'Dowd would rise and artlessly quit 
the room, when the young couple were so engaged. Glorvina 
forced the major to ride with her of mornings. The whole canton- 
ment saw them set out and return. She was constantly writing- 
notes over to him at his house, borrowing his books, and 
scoring with her great pencil-marks such passages of sentiment or 
humor as awakened her sympathy. She borrowed his horses, his 
sei-vants, his spoons, and palankin — no wonder that public rumor 
assigned her to him, and that the major's sisters in England should 
fancy they were about to have a sister-in-law. 

Dobbin, who was thus vigorously besieged, was in the mean while 
in a state of the most odious tranquillity. He used to laugh when 
the 5^oung fellows of the regiment joked him about Glorvina's 
manifest attentions to him. " Bah ! " said he, " she isonly keeping 
her hand in — she practices upon me as she does upon Mrs. Tozer's 
piano, because it's the most handy instrument in the station. I am 
much too battered and old for such a line young lady as Glorvina." 
And so he went on riding with her, and copying music and verses 
into her albums, and playing at chess with her very submissively ; 
for it is Vs^ith these simple amusements that some officers in India 
are accustomed to while away their leisure moments ; while others 
of a less domestic turn hunt hogs, and shoot snipes, or gamble and 
smoke cheroots, and betake themselves to brandy and water. As 
for Sir Michael O'Dowd, though his lady and her sister both urged 
him to call upon the major to explain himself, and not keep on 
torturing a poor innocent girl in that shameful way, the old soldier 
refused point-blank to have anything to do with the conspiracy. 
" Faith, the major's big enough to choose for himself," Sir 
Michael said ; " he'll ask ye when he wants ye ; " — or else he 
would turn the matter off jocularly, declaring that " Dobbin was 
too young to keep house, and had written home to ask leave of his 
mamma." Nay, he went further, and in private communications 
with his major, would caution and rally him — crying, " Mind your 
oi, Dob, my boy, them girls is bent on mischief — me lady has just 
got a box of gowns from Europe, and there's a pink satin for Glor- 
vina, which will finish ye, Dob, if it's in the power of woman or 
satin to move ye." 

But the truth is, neither beauty nor fashion could conquer him 
Our honest friend had but one idea of a woman in his head, and 



^r-^ 




I 



482 VANITY FAIR. 

that one did not in the least resemble Miss Glorvina O'Dowd in 
pink satin. A gentle little woman in black, with large eyes and 
brown hair, seldom speaking, save when spoken to, and then in a 
voice not the least resembling Miss Glorvina's — a soft young 
mother tending an infant, and beckoning the major up with a smile 
to look at him — a rosy-cheeked lass coming singing into the room 
in Russell Square, or hanging on George Osborne's arm, happy and 
loving — there was but this image that filled our honest major's 
mind by day and by night, and reigned over it always. Very likely 
Amelia was not like the portrait the major had formed of her : 
there was a figure in a book of fashions which his sisters had in 
England, and with which William had made away privately, pasting 
it into the lid of his desk, and fancying he saw some resemblance 
to Mrs. Osborne in the print, whereas I have seen it, and can vouch 
that it is but the picture of a high-waisted gown with an impossible 
doll's face simpering over it — and, perhaps, Mr. Dobbin's senti- 
mental Amelia was no more like the real one than this absurd little 
print which he cherished. But what man in love, of us, is better 
informed ? or is he much happier when he sees and owns his de- 
lusion ? Dobbin was under this spell. He did not bother his 
friends and the public much about his feelings, or indeed lose his 
natural rest on account of them. His head has grizzled since we 
saw him last ; and a line or two of silver may be seen in the soft 
brown hair likewise. But his feelings are not in the least changed 
or oldened ; and his love remains as fresh as a man's recollections 
of boyhood are. 

We have said how the two Misses Dobbins and Amelia, the 
major's correspondents in Europe, wrote him letters from England ; 
Mrs. Osborne congratulating him with great candor and cordiality 
upon his approaching nuptials with Miss O'Dowd. 

" Your sister has just kindly visited me," Amelia wrote in her 
letter, " and informed me of an interesting event., upon which I beg 
to offer my most sincere congratulations. I hope the young lady to 
whom I hear you are to be united will in every respect prove 
worthy of one who is himself all kindness and goodness. The 
poor widow has only her prayers to offer, and her cordial wishes 
iox your prosperity I Georgy sends his love to his dear grandpapa, 
and hopes that you will not forget him. I tell him that you are 
about to form other ties, with one whom I am sure merits all your 
affectiop^ but that, although such ties must of course be the strong- 
est and mo-^t sacred, and supersede all others, yet that I am sure 
that the widow and the child whom you have ever protected and 
loved will always have a corner in your heart. ""^ The letter, which 
has been before alluded to, went on in this strain, protesting 
throughout as to the extreme satisfaction of the writer. 



IN WHICH THE READER DOUBLES THE CAPE, 



483 



Tnis letter, which arrived by the very same ship which brought 
out Lady O'Dowd's ,,,, ,,, ,11 

, r • 1 1 • .<ii!lll!i;nlilll 

box of millinery 
from London (and 
which you may be 
sure Dobbin opened 
before any one of 
the other packets 
which the mail 
brought him), put the 
receiver into such a 
state of mind that 
Glorvina, and her 
pink satin, and ev- 
erything belonging 
to her, became per- 
fectly odious to him. 
The major cursed 
the talk of women ; 
and the sex in gen- 
eral. Everything an- 
noyed him that day 
— the parade was 
insufferably hot and 
wearisome. Good 
heavens, was a man 
of intellect to waste 
his life, day after 

day, inspecting cross-belts, and putting fools through 
maneuvers ? The senseless chatter of the young men at mess 
was more than ever jarring. What cared he, a man on the high 
road to forty, to know how many snipes Lieutenant Smith had 
shot, or what were the performances of Ensign Brown's mare ? 
The jokes about the table filled him with shame. He was too old 
to listen to the banter of the assistant-surgeon and the slang of the 
youngsters, at which old O'Dowd, with his bald head and red face, 
laughed quite easily. The old man had listened to those jokes any 
time these thirty years — Dobbin himself had been fifteen years 
hearing them. And after the boisterous dullness of the mess- 
table, the quarrels and scandal of the ladies of the regiment ! It 
was unbearable, shameful. " O Amelia, Amelia," he thought, 
" you to whom I have been so faithful — you reproach me ! It is 
because you can not feel for me, that I drag on this wearisome 
life. And you reward me after years of devotion by giving me 
your blessing upon my marriage, forsooth, upon this flaunting 




their 



484 VANITY FAIR. 

Irish girl ! " Sick and sorry felt pocr William , more than ever 
wretched and lonely. He would liked to have done with life 
and its vanity altogether — so bootless and unsatisfactory the strug- 
gle, so cheerless and dreary the prospect seemed to him. He lay 
all that night sleepless, and yearning to go home. Amelia's letter 
had fallen as a blank upon him. No fidelity, no constant truth 
and passion could move her into warmth. She would not see 
that he loved her. Tossing in his bed, he spoke out to her. 
" Good God, Amelia ! " he said, " don't you know that I only love 
you in the world — you, who are a stone to me — you, whom I 
tended through months and months of illness and grief, and who 
bade me farewell with a smile on your face, and forgot me before 
the door shut between us ! " The native servants lying outside his 
verandas beheld with wonder the major, so cold and quiet ordina- 
rily, at present so passionately moved and cast down. Would she 
have pitied him had she seen him ? He read over and over all the 
letters which he ever had from her — letters of business relative to 
the little property which he had made her believe her husband had 
left to her — brief notes of invitation — every scrap of writing that 
she had ever sent to him — how cold, how kind, how hopeless, 
how selfish they were ! 

Had there been some kind, gentle soul near at hand, who could 
read and appreciate this silent, generous heart, who knows but 
that the reign of Amelia might have been over, and that friend 
William's love might have flowed into a kinder channel ? But 
there was only Glorvina of the jetty ringlets with whom his inter- 
course was familiar, and this dashing young woman was not bent 
upon loving the major, but rather upon making the major admire 
her — a most vain and hopeless task too, at least considering the 
means that the poor girl possessed to carry it out. She curled her 
hair and showed her shoulders at him, as much as to say, did ye 
ever see such jet ringlets and such a complexion ? She grinned at 
him so that he might see that every tooth in her head was sound 
— and he never heeded all these charms. Very soon after the 
arrival of the box of millinery, and perhaps indeed in honor of it, 
Lady O'Dowd and the ladies of the king's regiment gave a ball to 
the company's regiments and the civilians at the station. Glorvina 
sported the killing pink frock, and the major, who attended the 
party and walked very ruefully up and down the rooms, never so 
much as perceived the pink garment. Glorvina dashed past him 
in a fury with all the young subalterns of the station, and the 
major was not in the least jealous of her performance, or angry 
because Captain Bangles of the calvary handed her to supper. It 
was not jealousy, or frocks, or shoulders, that could move him, 
and Glorvina had nothing more. 



IN WHICH THE READER DOUBLES THE CAPE. 485 

So these two were each exemplifying the vanity of this hfe, and 
each longing for what he or she could not get. Glorvina cried 
with rage at the failure. She had set her mind on the major " more 
than on any of the others," she owned, sobbing. " He'll break 
my heart, he will, Peggy," she would whimper to her sister-in-law 
when they were good friends ; " sure every one of me frocks must 
be taken in — its such a skeleton I'm growing." Fat or • thin, 
laughing or melancholy, on horseback or the music-stool, it was all 
the same to the major. And the colonel, puffing his pipe and 
Hstening to these complaints, would suggest that Glory should 
have some black frocks out in the next box from London, and told 
a mysterious story of a lady in Ireland who died of grief for the 
loss of her husband before she got ere a one. 

While the major was going on in this tantalizing way, not pro- 
posing, and declining to fall in love, there came another ship from 
Europe bringing letters on board, and among them some more for 
the heartless man. These were home letters - bearing an earlier 
post-mark than that of the former packets, and as Major Dobbin 
recognized among his the handwriting of his sister, who always 
■crossed and re-crossed her letters to her brother — gathered 
together aU the possible bad news which she could collect, abused 
liim and read him lectures with sisterly frankness, and always left 
him miserable for the day after " dearest William " had achieved 
the perusal of one of her epistles — the truth must be told that 
'dearest William did not hurry himself to break the seal of Miss 
Dobbin's letter, but waited for a particular favorable day and mood 
ifor doing so. A fortnight before, moreover, he had written to 
scold her for telling those absurd stories to Mrs. Osborne, and had 
dispatched a letter in reply to that lady, undeceiving her with 
respect to the reports concerning him, and assuring her that *' he 
Jiad no sort of present intention of altering his condition." 

Two or three nights after the arrival of the second packet of 
letters, the major had passed the evening pretty cheerfully at 
Lady O'Dowd's house, where Glorvina thought that he listened 
with rather more attention than usual to the Meeting of the 
Wathers, the Minsthrel Boy, and one or two other specimens of 
song with which she favored him (the truth is, he was no more 
listening to Glorvina than to the howling of the jackals in the 
moonlight outside, and the delusion was hers as usual), and having 
played his game at chess with her (cribbage with the surgeon was 
Lady O'Dowd's favorite evening pastime). Major Dobbin took 
leave of the colonel's family at his usual hour and retired to his 
own house. 

There on his table, his sister's letter lay reproaching him. He 
took it up, ashamed rather of his negligence regarding it, and pre- 



486 VANITY FAIR. 

pared himself for a disagreeable hour's communing with that crab- 
bed-handed absent relative. ... It may have been an hour after 
the major's departure from the colonel's house — Sir Michael was 
sleeping the sleep of the just ; Glorvina had arranged her black 
ringlets in the innumerable little bits of paper in which it was her 
habit to confine them ; Lady O'Dowd too had gone to her bed in 
the nuptial chamber, on the ground floor, and had tucked her 
mosquito curtains round her fair form, when the guard at the 
gates of the commanding officer's compound beheld Major Dobbin, 
in the moonlight, rushing toward the house with a swift step and a 
very agitated countenance, and he passed the sentinel, and went 
up to the windows of the colonel's bed-chamber. 

" O'Dowd — Colonel ! " said Dobbin, and kept up a great 
shouting. 

" Heavens, meejor ! " said Glorvina of the curl-papers, putting 
out her head too, from her window. 

" What is it, Dob, my boy .? " said the colonel, expecting there- 
was a fire in the station, or that the route had come from head- 
quarters. 

" I — I must have leave of absence. I must go to England — on^ 
the most urgent private affairs," Dobbin said. 

" Good heavens, what has happened ! " though Glorvina, tremb- 
ling with all the papillotes. 

" I want to be off — now — to-night," Dobbin continued , and the- 
colonel getting up, came out to parley with him. 

In the postscript of Miss Dobbin's cross-letter, the major had 
just come upon a paragraph, to the following effect : I " drove yes- 
terday to see your old acquamtafice, Mrs. Osborne. The wretched 
place they live at, since they were bankrupts, you know — Mr. S., 
to judge from a brass plate on the door of his h"ut (it is little better) 
is a coal-merchant. The little boy, your godson, is certainly a fine- 
child, though forward, and inclined to be saucy and self-willed.. 
But we have taken notice of him as you wish it, and have intro- 
duced him to his aunt. Miss O. , who was rather pleased with him.. 
Perhaps his grandpapa, not the bankrupt one, who is almost dot- 
ing, but Mr. Osborne, of Russell Square, may be induced to relent 
toward the child of your friend, his erring and self-willed son.. 
And Amelia will not be ill-disposed to give him up. The wddow 
is consoled., and is about to marry a reverend gentleman, the Rev.. 
Mr. Binny, one of the curates of Brompton. A poor match. But 
Mrs. O. is getting old, and I saw a great deal of gray in her hair 
— she was in very good spirits ; and your little godson overate 
himself at our house. Mamma sends her love with that of your- 
affectionate, Ann Dobbin." 



BETWEEN LONDON AND HAMPSHIRE. 



487 



CHAPTER XLIV. 



A ROUNDABOUT CHAPTER BETWEEN LONDON AND HAMPSHIRE. 

= UR old friends the Crawleys' family house, 
in Great Gaunt Street, still bore over its 
front the hatchment which had been 
placed there as a' token of mourning for 
Sir Pitt Crawley's demise, yet this heral- 
dic emblem was in itself a very splendid 
and gaudy piece of furniture, and all the 
rest of the mansion became more brill- 
iant than it had ever been during the late 
baronet's reign. The black outer coat- 
ing of the bricks was removed, and 
they appeared with a cheerful blushing 
face streaked with white ; the old bronze 
lions of the knocker were gilt handsome- 
ly, the railings painted, and the dismal- 
est house in Great Gaunt Street became 
the smartest in the whole quarter, before 
the green leaves in Hampshire had re- 
placed those yellowing ones which were 
on the trees in Queen's Crawley avenue 
when old Sir Pitt Crawley passed under 
them for the last time. 
A little woman, with a carriage to correspond, was perpet- 
ually seen about this mansion ; an elderly spinster, accompanied 
by a little boy, also might be remarked coming thither daily. It 
was Miss Briggs and little Rawdon, whose business it was to see 
to the inward renovation of Sir Pitt's house, to superintend the 
female band engaged in stitching the blinds and hangings, to poke 
and rummage in the drawers and cupboards crammed with the 
dirty relics and congregated trumperies of a couple of generations 
of Lady Crawleys, and to take inventories of the china, the glass, 
and other properties in the closets and store-rooms. 

Mrs. Rawdon Crawley was general-in-chief over these arrange- 
ments, with full orders from Sir Pitt to sell, barter, confiscate or 
purchase furniture ; and she enjoyed herself not a little in an occu- 
pation which gave full scope to her taste and ingenuity. The ren- 
ovation of the house was determined upon when Sir Pitt came to 
town in November to see his lawyers, and when he passed nearly 
a week in Curzon Street, under the roof of his affectionate brother 
and sister. 




VANITY FAIR. 



He had put up at a hotel at first ; but Becky, as soon as she 
heard of the baronet's arrival, went off alone to greet him, and 
returned in an hour to Curzon Street with Sir Pitt in the carriage 
by her side. It was impossible sometimes to resist this artless 
little creature's hospitalities, so kindly were they pressed, so frankly 
and amiably offered. Becky seized Pitt's hand in a transport 
of gratitude when he agreed to come. " Thank you," she said, 
squeezing it, and looking into the baronet's eyes, who blushed a 
good deal ; " how happy this will make Rawdon ! " She bustled 
up to Pitt's bedroom, leading on the servants, who were carrying 
his trunks thither. She came in herself laughing, with a coal- 
scuttle out of her own room. 

A fire was blazing already in Sir Pitt's apartment (it was Miss 
Briggs's room, by the way, who was sent up stairs to sleep with 
the maid). " I knew I should bring you," she said, with pleasure 
beaming in her glance. Indeed, she was really sincerely happy at 

having him for a guest. 

Becky made Rawdon 
dine out once or twice 
on business, while Pitt 
stayed with them, and 
the baronet passed the 
happy evening alonewith 
her and Briggs. She 
went down stairs to the 
kitchen and actually 
cooked little dishes for 
him. " Isn't it a good 
salmi ? " she said ; " I 
made it for you. I can 
make you better dishes 
than that ; and will when 
you come to see me." 
" Everything you do, 
\i you do well," said the 
' baronet, gallantly. "The 
salmi is excellent in- 
deed." 

" A poor man's wife," 
Rebecca repHed, gayly, 
" must make herself use- 
ful, you know;" on 
she was fit to be the wife of 
domestic duties was surely 
woman's qualities." And Sir Pitt 




which her brother-in-law vowed that 
an emperor, and that to be skillful : 
one of the most charming of 



I 



BE TWEEN L ONDON AND HAMPSHIRE. 489 

thought, with something like mortification, of Lady Jane at home, 
and of a certain pie which she had insisted on making, and serving 
to him at dinner — a most abominable pie. 

Besides the salmi, which was made of Lord Steyne's pheasants 
from his lordship's cottage of Stillbrook, Becky gave her brother- 
in-law a bottle of white wine, some that Rawdon had brought with 
him from France, and had picked up for nothing, the little story- 
teller said ; whereas, the liquor was, in truth, some White Hermi- 
tage from the Marquis of Steyne's famous cellars, which brought 
fire into the baronet's pallid cheeks and a glow into his feeble 
frame. 

Then when he had drunk up the bottle of petit vin blanc, she 
gave him- her hand and took him up to the drawing-room, and 
made him snug on the sofa by the fire, and let him talk as she 
listened with the tenderest kindly interest, sitting by him, and hem- 
ming a shirt for her dear little boy. Whenever Mrs. Rawdon 
wished to be particularly humble and virtuous, this little shirt used 
to come out of her work-box. It had got to be too small for Raw- 
don long before it was finished. 

Well, Rebecca listened to Pitt, she talked to him, she sang to him, 
she coaxed him, and cuddled him, so that he found himself more and 
more glad every day to get back from the lawyer's at Gray's Inn, to the 
blazing fire in Curzon Street — a gladness in which the men of law 
likewise participated, for Pitt's harangues were of the longest — 
and so that when he went away hi felt ruit: a pang -at departing. 
How pretty she looked kissing her 'land ' him from the carriage 
and waving her handkerchief whe:. lij l.-i taken his place in the 
mail ! She put the handkerchief to her eyes once. He pulled his 
sealskin cap over his, as the coach drove away, and, sinking back, 
he thought to himself how she respected him and how he deserved 
it, and how Rawdon was a foolish dull fellow who didn't half appre- 
ciate his wife ; and how mum and stupid his own wife was com- 
pared to that brilliant little Becky. Becky had hinted every one 
of these things herself, perhaps, but so delicately and gently that 
you hardly knew when or where. And before they parted, it was 
agreed that the house in London should be redecorated for the 
next season, and that the brothers' families should meet again in 
the country at Christmas. 

" I wish you could have got a little money out of him," Rawdon 
said to his wife moodily when the baronet was gone. " I should 
like to give something to old Raggles, hanged if I shouldn't. It 
ain't right, you know, that the old fellow^ should be kept out of all 
his money. It may be inconvenient, and he might let to some- 
body else besides us, you know." 

" Tell him," said Becky, " that as soon as Sir Pitt's affairs are 



490 VANITY J^AIR. 

settled, everybody will be paid, and give him a little something on 
account. Here's a check that Pitt left for the boy," and she took 
from her bag and gave her husband a paper which his brother had 
banded over to her, on behalf of the little son and heir of the 
younger branch of the Crawleys. 

The truth is, she had tried personally the ground on which her 
husband expressed a wish that she should venture — tried it ever 
so delicately, and found it unsafe. Even at a hint about embar- 
rassments, Sir Pitt Crawley was off and alarmed. And he began 
a long speech, explaining how straitened he himself was in money 
matters ; how the tenants would not pay ; how his father's affairs, 
and the expenses attendant upon the demise of the old gentleman, 
had involved him ; how he wanted to pay off incumbrances ; and 
how the bankers and agents were overdrawn ; and Pitt Crawley 
ended by making a compromise with his sister-in-law, and giving 
her a very small sum for the benefit of her little boy. 

Pitt knew how poor his brother and his brother's family must be. 
It could not have escaped the notice of such a cool and experienced 
old diplomatist, that Rawdon's family had nothing to live upon, and 
that houses r,nd carriages are not to be kept for nothing. He knew 
very well that h^ was the proprietor or appropriator of the money 
which, according to all proper calculation, ought to have fallen to 
his younger brother, and he had, we may be sure, some secret 
pangs of remorse within him, which warned him that he ought to 
perform some act of justice, or, let us say, compensation, toward 
these disappointed relations. A just, decent man, not without 
brains, who said his prayers, and knew his catechism, and did his 
duty outwardly through life, he could not be otherwise than aware 
that something was due to his brother at his hands, and that mor- 
ally he was Rawdon's debtor. 

But as one reads in the columns of the Times newspaper every 
now and then queer announcements from the Chancellor of the 
Exchequer, acknowledging the receipt of ;^5o from A. B., or ;^io 
trom W. T., ?,s conscience-money, on account of taxes due by the 
said A. B. or W. T., which payments the penitents beg the Right 
Honorable gentlemen to acknowledge through the medium of the 
public press : — so is the chancellor no doubt, and the reader like- 
wise, always perfectly sure that the above-named A. B. and W. T. 
are only paying a very small installment of what they really owe, and 
that the man who sends up a twent3^-pound note has very likely hun- 
dreds or thousands more for which he ought to account. Such, at 
least, are my feelings, when I see A. B. or W. T.'s, insulEficient 
acts of repentance. And I have no doubt that Pitt Crawley's con- 
trition, or kindness if you will, toward his younger brother, by 
whom he had so much profited, was only a very small dividend 



BETWEEN LONDON AND HAMPSHIRE, 491 

upon the capital sum in which he was indebted to Rawdon. Not 
■everybody is willing to pay even so much. To part with money is 
a sacrifice beyond almost all men endowed with a sense of order. 
There is scarcely any man alive who does not think himself meri- 
torious for giving his neighbor five pounds. Thriftless gives, not 
from a beneficent pleasure in giving, but from a lazy delight in 
spending. He would not deny himself one enjoyment ; not his 
opera-stall, not his horse, not his dinner, not even the pleasure of 
giving Lazarus the five pounds. Thrifty, who is good, wise, just, 
and owes no man a penny, turns from a beggar, haggles with a 
hackney-coachman, or denies a poor relation, and I doubt which is 
the most selfish of the two. Money has only a different value in 
the eyes of each. 

So, in a word, Pitt Crawley thought he would do something for 
his brother, and then thought he would think about it some other 
time. 

And with regard to Becky, she was not a woman who expected 
too much from the generosity of her neighbors, and so was quite 
content with all that Pitt Crawley had done for her. She was 
acknowledged by the head of the family. If Pitt would not give 
her anything, he would get something for her some day. If she 
got no money from her brother-in-law, she got what was as good as 
money — credit. Raggles was made rather easy in his mind by the 
spectacle of the union between the brothers, by a small payment 
on the spot, and by the promise of a much larger sum speedily to 
be assigned to him. And Rebecca told Miss Briggs, whose 
Christmas dividend upon the little sum lent by her Becky paid 
with an air of candid joy, and as if her exchequer was brimming 
over with gold — Rebecca, we say, told Miss Briggs, in strict confi- 
dence, that she had conferred with Sir Pitt, who was famous as a 
financier, on Briggs' special behalf, as to the most profitable 
investment of Miss B.'s remaining capital : that Sir Pitt, after 
much consideration, had thought of a most safe and advan- 
tageous way in which Briggs could lay out her money ; that being 
especially interested in her as an attached friend of the late Miss 
Crawley, and of the whole family, and that long before he left 
town he had recommended that she should be ready with the 
money at a moment's notice, so as to purchase at the most favora- 
ble opportunity the shares which Sir Pitt had in his e5^e. Poor 
Miss Briggs was very grateful for this mark of Sir Pitt's attention 
— it came so unsolicited, she said, for she never should have 
thought of removing the money from the funds — and the delicacy 
enhanced the kindness of the office ; and she promised to see her 
man of business immediately, and be ready with her little cash at 
the proper hour. 



492 VANITY FAIR. 

And this worthy woman was so grateful for the kindness of 
Rebecca in the matter, and for that of her generous benefactor, 
the colonel, that she went out and spent a great part of her half 
year's dividend in the purchase of a black velvet coat for little 
Rawdon, who, by the way, was grown almost too big for black vel- 
vet now, and was of a size and age befitting him for the assump- 
tion of the virile jacket and pantaloons. 

He was a fine open-faced boy, with blue eyes and waving flaxen 
hair, sturdy in limb, but generous and soft in heart : fondly attach- 
ing himself to all who were good to him — to the pony — to Lord 
Southdown, who gave him the horse (he used to blush and glow 
all over when he saw that kind young nobleman) — to the groom 
who had charge of the pony — to Molly, the cook, who crammed 
him with ghost stories at night, and with good things from the 
dinner — to Briggs, whom he plagued and laughed at — and to his 
father especially, whose attachment toward the lad was curious too 
to witness. Here, as he grew to be about eight years old, his 
attachments may be said to have ended. The beautiful mother- 
vision had faded away after awhile. During near two years she 
had scarcely spoken to the child. She disliked him. He had the 
measles and the hooping-cough. He bored her. One day when he 
was standing at the landing-place, having crept down from the 
upper regions, attracted by the sound of his mother's voice, who 
was singing to Lord Steyne, the drawing-room door opening sud- 
denly, discovered the little spy, who but a moment before had been 
rapt in delight, and listening to the music. 

His mother came out and struck him violently a couple of boxes 
on the ear. He heard a laugh from the marquis in the inner room 
(who was amused by this free and artless exhibition of Becky's 
temper), and fled down below to his friends of the kitchen, burst- 
ing into an agony of grief. 

" It is not because it hurts me," little Rawdon gasped out — 
" only — only " — sobs and tears wound up the sentence in a storm. 
It was the little boy's heart that was bleeding. " Why mayn't I 
hear her singing ? Why don't she ever sing to me — as she does 
to that bald-headed man with the large teeth ? " He gasped out 
at various intervals these exclamations of rage and grief. The 
cook looked at the housemaid ; the housemaid looked knowingly 
at the footman — the awful kitchen inquisition which sits in judg- 
ment in every house, and knows everything — sat on Rebecca at 
that moment. 

After this incident, the mother's dislike increased to hatred : 
the consciousness that the child was in the house was a reproach 
and a pain to her. His very sight annoyed her. Fear, doubt, 



BETWEEN LONDON AND HAMPSHIRE. A% 

and resistance sprang up, too, in the boy's own bosom. They were 
separated from that day of the boxes on the ear. 

Lord Steyne also heartily disliked the boy. When they met by 
mischance, he made sarcastic bows or remarks to the child, or 
glared at him with savage-looking eyes. Rawdon used to stare 
him in the face, and double his little fists in return. He knew his 
enemy : and this gentleman, of all who came to the house, was the 
one who angered him most. One day the footman found him 
squaring his fists at Lord Steyne's hat in the hall. The footman 
told the circumstance as a good joke to Lord Steyne's coachman ; 
that officer imparted it to Lord Steyne's gentleman, and to the 
servants' hall in general. And very soon afterward, when Mrs. 
Rawdon Crawley made her appearance at Gaunt House, the porter 
who unbarred the gates, the servants of all uniforms in the hall, 
the functionaries in white waistcoats, who bawled out from landing 
to landing the names of Colonel and Mrs. Rawdon Crawley, knew 
about her, or fancied they did. The man who brought her 
refreshment and stood behind her chair, had talked her character 
over with the large gentleman in motley-colored clothes at his side. 
Bon Dieu ! it is a.^ful, that servants' inquisition ! You see a 
woman in a great party in a splendid saloon, surrounded by faith- 
ful admirers, distributing sparkling glances, dressed to perfection, 
curled, rouged, smiling and happy : Discovery walks resepctfuUy 
up to her, in the shape of a huge powdered man with large calves 
and a tray of ices — ^vvdth calumny (which is as fatal as truth) — 
behind him, in the shape of the hulking fellow carrying the wafer- 
biscuits. Madam, your secret will be talked over by those men at 
their club at the public-house to-night. Jeames will tell Chawles 
his notions about you over their pipes and pewter beer-pots. 
Some people ought to have mutes for servants in Vanity Fair — 
mutes who could not write. If you are guilty, tremble. That fel- 
low behind your chair may be a janissary with a bow-string in his 
plush breeches pocket. If you are not guilty, have a care of 
appearances ; which are as ruinous as guilt. 

" Was Rebecca guilty or not ? " the Vehmgericht of the serv- 
ants' hall had pronounced against her. 

And, I shame to say, she would not have got credit had they 
not believed her to be guilty. It was the sight of the Marquis of 
Steyne's carriage-lamps at her door, contemplated by Raggles,. 
burning in the blackness of midnight " that kep him up," as he- 
afterward said ; that even more than Rebecca's arts and coaxings. 

And so — guiltless very likely — she was writhing and pushing on- 
ward toward what they call " a position in society," and the ser- 
vants were pointing at her as lost and ruined. So you see Molly, 
the housemaid, of a morning watching a spider in the doorpost lay 



494 VANITY FAIR. 

his thread and laboriously crawl up it, until, tired of the sport, she 
raises her broom and sweeps away the thread and the artificer. 

A day or two before Christmas, Becky, her husband and her 
son, made ready and went to pass the holidays at the seat of their 
ancestors at Queen's Crawley. Becky would have liked to leave 
the little brat behind, and would have done so but for Lady Jane's 
urgent invitations to the youngster : and the symptoms of revolt 
and discontent which Rawdon manifested at her neglect of her son. 
" He's the finest boy in England," the father said, in a tone of re- 
proach to her, " and you don't seem to care for him, Becky, as 
much as you do for your spaniel. He shan't bother you much : at 
home he will be away from you in the nursery, and he shall go 
outside on the coach with me." 

" Where you go yourself because you want to smoke those filthy 
cigars." replied Mrs. Rawdon. 

" I remember when you liked them though," answered the hus- 
band. 

Becky laughed : she was almost always good-humored. " That 
was when I was on my promotion, Goosey," she said. "Take 
Rawdon outside with you, and give him a cigar, too, if you like." 

Rawdon did not warm his little son for the winter's journey in 
this way,' but he and Briggs wrapped up the child in shawls and 
comforters, and he was hoisted respectfully on to the roof of the 
coach in the dark morning, under the lamps of the White Horse 
Cellar ; and with no small delight he watched the dawn rise, and 
made his first journey to the place which his father still called 
home. It was a journey of infinite pleasure to the boy, to whom 
the incidents of the road afforded endless interest ; his father an- 
swering to him all questions connected with it, and telling him who 
lived in the great white house to the right, and whom the park be- 
longed to. His mother, inside the vehicle, with her maid and her 
furs, her wrappers, and her scent-bottles, made such a to-do that 
you would have thought she had never been in a stage coach be- 
fore — much less that she had been turned out of this very one to 
make room for a paying passenger on a certain journey performed 
some half-score years ago. 

It was dark again when little Rawdon was wakened up to enter 
his uncle's carriage at Mudbury, and he sat and looked out of it 
wondering as the great iron gates flew open, and at the white 
trunks of the limes as they swept by, until they stopped, at length, 
before the light windows of the hall, which were blazing and com- 
fortable with Christmas welcome. The hall-door was flung open 
— a big fire was burning in the great old fire-place — a carpet was 
down over the checkered black flags — " It's the old turkey one 



496 VAJSriTY FAIR, 

that used to be in the ladies' gallery," thought Rebecca, and the 
next instant was kissing Lady Jane. 

She and Sir Pitt performed the same salute with great gravity ; 
but Rawdon having been smoking, hung back rather from his 
sister-in-law, whose two children came up to their cousin ; and, 
while Matilda held out her hand and kissed him, Pitt Binkie 
Southdown, the son and heir, stood aloof rather, and examined 
him as a little dog does a big dog. 

Then the kind hostess conducted her guests to the snug apart- 
ments blazing with cheerful fires. Then the young ladies came 
and knocked at Mrs. Rawdon's door, under the pretence that they 
were desirous to be useful, but in reality to have the pleasure of 
inspecting the contents of her band and bonnet boxes, and her 
dresses which, though black, were of the newest London fashion. 
And they told her how much the Hall was changed for the better, 
and how old Lady Southdown was gone, and how Pitt was taking 
his station in the county, as became a Crawley in fact. Then the 
great dinner-bell having rung, the family assembled at dinner, at 
which meal Rawdon junior was placed by his aunt, the good- 
natured lady of the house ; Sir Pitt being uncommonly attentive to 
his sister-in-law at his own right hand. 

Little Rawdon exhibited a fine appetite, and showed a gentle- 
man-like behavior. 

" I like to dine here." he said to his aunt when he had com- 
pleted his meal, at the conclusion of which, and after a decent 
grace by Sir Pitt, the younger son and heir was introduced, and 
was perched on a high chair by the baronet's side, while the daugh- 
ter took possession of the plate and the little wine glass prepared 
for her near her mother. " I like to dine here," said Rawdon Mi- 
nor, looking up at his relation's kind face. 

" Why ? " said the good Lady Jane. 

" I dine in the kitchen when I am at home," replied Rawdon 
Minor, " or else with Briggs." But Becky was so engaged with 
the baronet, her host, pouring out a flood of compliments and de- 
lights and raptures, and admiring young Pitt Einkie, whom she 
declared to be the most beautiful, intelligent, noble-looking little 
creature, and so like his father, that she did not hear the remarks 
of her own flesh and blood at the other end of the broad, shining 
table. 

As a guest, and it being the first night of his arrival, Rawdon 
the Second was allowed to sit up until the hour when tfea being 
over, and a great gilt book being laid on the table before Sir Pitt, 
all the domestics of the family streamed in, and Sir Pitt read 
prayers. It was the first time the poor little boy had ever wit- 
nessed or heard of such a ceremonial. 



BETWEEN HAMPSHIRE AND LONDON A97 

The house had been much improved ever since the baronet's 
brief reign, and was pronounced by Becky to be perfect, charming, 
dehghtful, when she surveyed it in his company. As for Httle 
Rawdon, who examined it with the children for his guides, it 
seemed to him a perfect palace of enchantment and wonder. 
There were long galleries, and ancient state bedrooms, there were 
pictures, and old china, and armor. These were the rooms in 
which grandpapa died, and by which the chi-ldren walked with ter- 
rified looks. " Who was grandpapa .? " he asked ; and they told 
him haw he used to be very old, and used to be wheeled about in 
a garden-chair, and they showed him the garden-chair one day 
rotting in the out-house in which it had lain since the old gentle- 
man had been wheeled away yonder to the church, of which the 
spire was glittering over the park elms. 

The brothers had good occupation for several mornings in ex- 
amining the improvements which had been effected by Sir Pitt's 
genius and economy. And as they walked or rode, and looked at 
them, they could talk without too much boring each other. And 
Pitt took care to tell Rawdon what a heavy outlay of money these 
improvements had occasioned ; and that a man of landed and 
funded property was often very hard pressed for twenty pounds. 
" There is that new lodge gate," said Pitt, pointing to it humbly with 
the bamboo cane, " I can no more pay for it before the dividends in 
January than I can fly." 

" I can lend you, Pitt, till then," Rawdon answered rather rue- 
fully; and they went in and looked at the restored lodge, where 
the family arms were just new scraped in stone ; and where old 
Mrs. Lock, for the first time these many long years, had tight doors, 
sound roofs, and whole windows. 



3a 



49B 



VANITY FAIR, 




CHAPTER XLV. 

BETWEEN HAMPSHIRE AND LONDON. 

IR PITT CRAWLEY had done 
more than repair fences and re- 
store dilapidated lodges on the 
Queen's Crawley estate. Like a 
wise man he had set to work to 
rebuild the injured popularity 
of his house, and stop up the 
gaps and ruins in which his 
name had been left by his dis- 
reputable and thriftless prede- 
cessor. He was elected for the 
borough speedily after his fa- 
ther's demise ; a magistrate, a 
member of parliament, a county 
magnate, and representative of an ancient family, he made it his 
duty to show himself before the Hampshire public, subscribed 
handsomely to the county charities, called assiduously upon all the 
county folks, and laid himself out, in a word, to take that position 
in Hampshire, and in the empire afterward, to which he thought 
his prodigious talents justly entitled him. Lady Jane was 
instructed to be friendly with the Fuddlestones, and the Wapshots, 
and the other famous baronets, their neighbors. Their carriages 
might frequently be seen in the Queen's Crawley avenue now ; 
they dined pretty frequently at the Hall (where the cookery was so 
good that it was clear Lady Jane very seldom had a hand in it), 
and in> jreturn Pitt and his wife most energetically dined out in all 
sorts of weather and at all sorts of distances. For though Pitt 
did not care for joviality, being a frigid man of poor health and 
appetite, yet he considered that to be hospitable and condescending 
was quite incumbent on his station, and every time that he got a 
headache from too long on after-dinner sitting, he felt that he was 
a martyr to duty. He talked about crops, corn laws, politics, with 
the best country gentlemen. He (who had been formerly inclined 
to be a sad free-thinker on these points) entered into poaching and 
game preserving with ardor. He didn't hunt : he wasn't a hunting 
man ; he was a man of books and peaceful habits ; but he thought 
that the breed of horses must be kept up in the country, and that 



BETWEEN HAMPSHIRE AND LONDON. 499 

the breed of foxes must therefore be looked to, and for his part, if 
his friend. Sir Huddlestone Fuddlestone, Uked to draw his country, 
and meet as of old the F. hounds used to do at Queen's Crawley, 
he should be happy to see him there, and the gentlemen of the 
Fuddlestone hunt. And to Lady Southdown 's dismay too he 
became more orthodox in his tendencies every day ; gave up 
preaching in public and attending meeting-houses ; went stoutly 
to church ; called on the bishop, and all the clergy at 
Winchester ; and made no objection when the venerable 
Archdeacon Trumper asked for a game of whist. What pangs 
must have been those of Lady Southdown, and what an utter cast- 
away she must have thought her son-in-law for permitting such a 
godless diversion ! and when, on the return of the family from an 
oratorio at Winchester, the baronet announced to the young ladies 
that he should next year very probably take them to the " county 
balls," they worshiped him for his kindness. Lady Jane was 
only too obedient, and perhaps glad herself to go. The dowager 
wrote off the direst descriptions of her daughter's worldly behavior 
to the authoress of the " Washerwoman of Finchley Common " at 
the Cape ; and her house in Brighton being about this time 
unoccupied, returned to that watering-place, her absence being not 
very much deplored by her children. We may suppose, too, that 
Rebecca, on paying a second visit to Queen's Crawley, did not feel 
particularly grieved at the absence of the lady of the medicine- 
chest; though she wrote a Christmas letter to her ladyship, in 
which she respectfully recalled herself to Lady Southdown's recol- 
lection, spoke with gratitude of the delight which her ladyship's 
conversation had given her on the former visit, dilated on the kind- 
ness with which her ladyship had treated her in sickness, and 
declared that everything at Queen's Crawley reminded her of her 
absent friend. 

A great part of the altered demeanor and popularity of Sir Pitt 
Crawley might have been traced to the counsels of that astute 
little lady of Curzon Street. " You remain a baronet — you con- 
sent to be a mere country gentleman," she said to him, while he 
had been her guest in London. " No, Sir Pitt Crawley, I know 
you better. I know your talents and your ambition. You fancy 
you hide them both ; but you can conceal neither from me. I 
showed Lord Steyne your pamphlet on malt. He was familiar 
with it ; and said it was in the opinion of the whole cabinet the 
most masterly thing that had appeared on the subject. The min- 
istry has its eye upon you, and I know what you want. You want 
to distinguish yourself in parliament ; every one says you are the 
finest speaker in England (for your speeches at Oxford are still 
remembered). You want to be member for the county, where, 



500 



VANITY FAIR. 



with your own vote and your borough at your back, you can com- 
mand anything. And you want to be Baron Crawley of Queen's 
Crawley, and will be before you die. I saw it all. I could read 
your heart. Sir Pitt. If I had a husband who possessed your 
intellect as he does your name, I sometimes think I should not be 
unworthy of him — but — but I am your kinswoman now," she 
added with a laugh. " Poor little penniless I have got a little 
interest — and who knows, perhaps the mouse may be able to aid 
the lion." 

Pitt Crawley was amazed and enraptured with her speech. 
'*' How that woman comprehends me ! " he said. " I never could 
;get Jane to read three pages of the malt pamphlet. She has no 
idea that I have commanding talents or secret ambition. So they 
remember my speaking at Oxford, do they ? The rascals ! now 
that I represent my borough and may sit for the county, they begin 
to recollect me ! Why, Lord Steyne cut me at the levee last year ; 
they are beginning to find out that Pitt Crawley is some one at 
last. Yes, the man was always the same whom these people neg- 
lected ; it was only the opportunity that was wanting, and I will 
show them now that I can speak and act as well as write. Achilles 
did not declare himself until they gave him the sword. I hold it 
now, and the world shall yet hear of Pitt Crawley." 

Therefore it was that this roguish diplomatist has grown so 
hospitable ; that he was so civil to oratorios and hospitals ; so 
kind to deans and chapters ; so generous in giving and accepting 
dinners ; so uncommonly gracious to farmers on market days ; 
and so much interested about county business ; and that the 
Christmas at the Hall was the gayest which had been known there 
for many a long day. 

On Christmas Day a great family gathering took place. All 
the Crawleys from the Rectory came to dine. Rebecca was as 
frank and fond of Mrs. Bute, as if the other had never been her 
enemy , she was affectionately interested in the dear girls, and 
surprised at the progress which they made in music since her time ; 
and insisted upon encoring one of the duets out of the great song- 
books which Jim, grumbling, had been forced to bring under his 
arm from the Rectory. Mrs. Bute, perforce, was obliged to adopt 
a decent demeanor toward the little adventuress — of course being 
free to discourse with her daughters afterward about the absurd 
respect with which Sir Pitt treated his sister-in-law. But Jim, who 
had sat next to her at dinner, declared she was a trump ; and one 
and all of the rector's family agreed that the little Rawdon was a 
iine boy. They respected a possible baronet in the boy, between 
whom and the title there was only the little sickly pale Pitt 
Binkie. 



BETWEEN HAMPSHIRE AND LONDON. 501 

The children were very good friends. Pitt Binkie was too little 
a dog for such a big dog as Rawdon to play with ; and Matilda 
being only a girl, of course not fit companion for a young gentle- 
man who was near eight years old, and going into jackets very 
sobn. He took the command of this small party at once — the 
little girl and the little boy following him about with great rev- 
erence at such times as he condescended to sport with them. His 
happiness and pleasure in the country were extreme. The kitchen 
garden pleased him hugely, the flowers moderately, but the pigeons 
and the poultry, and the stables when he was allowed to visit them 
were delightful objects to him. He resisted being kissed by the 
Misses Crawley ; but he allowed Lady Jane sometimes to 
embrace him ; and it was by her side that he liked to sit when, 
the signal to retire to the drawing-room being given, the ladies left 
the gentlemen to their claret — by her side rather than by his 
mother. For Rebecca, seeing that tenderness was the fashion, 
called Rawdon to her one evening, and stooped down and kissed 
him in the presence of all the ladies. 

He looked her full in the face after the operation, trembling and 
turning very red, as his wont was when moved. " You never kiss 
me at home, mamma," he said ; at which there was a general silence 
and consternation, and a by no means pleasant look in Becky's 
eyes. 

Rawdon was fond of his sister-in-law, for her regard for his son. 
Lady Jane and Becky did not get on quite so well at this visit as 
on occasion of the former one, when the colonel's wife was bent 
upon pleasing. Those two speeches of the child struck rather a 
chill. Perhaps Sir Pitt was rather too attentive to her. 

But Rawdon, as became his age and size, was fonder of the 
soci*ety of the men than of the women ; and never wearied of ac- 
companying his sire to the stables, whither the colonel retired to 
smoke his cigar — Jim, the rector's son, sometimes joining his 
cousin in that and other amusements. He and the baronet's 
keeper were very close friends, their mutual taste for " dawgs " 
bringing them much together. On one day, Mr. James, the 
colonel, and Horn, the keeper, went and shot pheasants, taking 
little Rawdon with them. On another most blissful morning, these 
four gentlemen partook of the amusement of rat-hunting in a barn, 
than which sport Rawdon as yet hcd never seen anything more 
noble. They stopped up the ends of certain drains in the barn, 
into the other openings of which ferrets were inserted ; and then 
stood silently aloof, with uplifted stakes in their hands, and an 
anxious little terrier (Mr. James's celebrated "dawg" Forceps, 
mdeed), scarcely breathing from excitement, hstening motionless 
•on three legs, to the faint squeaking of the rats below. Desper- 



502 VANITY FAIR. 

ately bold at last, the persecuted animals bolted above ground : the. 
terrier accounted for one, the keeper for another : Rawdon, fromi 
flurry and excitement, missed his rat, but on the other hand he half 
murdered a ferret. 

But the greatest day of all was that on which Sir Huddlestone 
Fuddlestone's hounds met upon the lawn at Queen's Crawley. 

That was a famous sight for little Rawdon. At half-past ten, 
Tom Moody, Sir Huddlestone Fuddlestone's huntsman, was seen, 
trotting up the avenue, followed by the noble pack of hounds in a 
compact body, — the rear being brought up by the two whips, clad 
in stained scarlet frocks — light, hard-featured lads on well-bred 
lean horses, possessing marvelous dexterity in casting the points- 
of their long heavy whips at the thinnest part of any dog's skin 
who dares to straggle from the main body, or to take the slightest 
notice, or even so much as wink, at the hares and rabbits starting 
under their noses. 

Next comes boy Jack, Tom Moody's son, who weighs five stone, 
measures eight and forty inches, and will never be any bigger. 
He is perched on a large raw-boned hunter, half-covered by a 
capacious saddle. This animal is Sir Huddlestone Fuddlestone's 
favorite horse — the Nob. Other horses, ridden by other small 
boys, arrive from time to time, awaiting their masters, who will 
come cantering on anon. 

Tom Moody rides up to the door of the hall, where he is- 
welcomed by the butler, who offers him drink, which he declines. 
He and his pack then draw off into a sheltered corner of the 
lawn, where the dogs roll on the grass, and play or growl angrily 
at one another, ever and anon breaking out into furious fight, 
speedily to be quelled by Tom's voice, unmatched at rating, or the 
snaky thongs of the whips. 

Many young gentlemen canter up on thoroughbred hacks,, 
spatter-dashed to the knee, and enter the house to drink cherry- 
brandy and pay their respects to the ladies, or, more modest and, 
sportsman-like, divest themselves of their mud boots, exchange 
their hacks for their hunters, and warm their blood by a prelimi- 
nary gallop round the lawn. Then they collect round the pack in 
one corner, and talk with Tom Moody of past sport, and the 
merits of Sniveller and Diamond, and of the state of the country 
and of the wretched breed of foxes. 

Sir Huddlestone presently appears mounted on a clever cob, 
and rides up to the Hall, where he enters and does the civil thing 
by the ladies, after which, being a man of few words, he proceeds 
to business. The hounds are drawn up to the hall-door, and 
little Rawdon descends among them, excited yet half-alarmed by 
the caresses which they bestow upon him, at the thumps he 



BETWEEN HAMPSHIRE AND LONDON 50^ 

receives from their waving tails, and at their canine bickerings,, 
scarcely restrained by Tom Moody's tongue and lash. 

Meanwhile, Sir Huddlestone has hoisted himself unwieldily on 
the Nob : " Let's try Sowster's Spinney, Tom," says the baronet. 
" Farmer Mangle tells me there are two foxes in it." Tom blows 
his horn and trots off, followed by the pack, by the whips, by the 
young gents" from Winchester, by the farmers of the neighbor- 
hood, by the laborers of the parish on foot, with whom the day is 
a great holiday ; Sir Huddlestone bringing up the rear v/ith 
Colonel Crawley, and the whole cortege disappears down the 
avenue. 

The Rev. Bute Crawley (who has been too modest to appear at 
the public meet before his nephew's windows), and whom Tom 
Moody remembers forty years back a slender divine riding the 
wildest horses, jumping the widest brooks, and larking over the 
newest gates in the country — his reverence, we say, happens to 
trot out from the rectory lane on his powerful black horse, just as 
Sir Huddlestone passes ; he joins the worthy baronet. Hounds 
and horsemen disappear, and little Rawdon remains on the door- 
steps, wondering and happy. 

During the progress of this memorable holiday, little Rawdon, 
if he had got no special liking for his uncle, always awful and 
cold, and locked up in his study, plunged in justice business and 
surrounded by bailiffs and farmers — has gained the good graces of 
his married and maiden aunts, of the two little folks of the Hall, 
and of Jim of the Rectory, whom Sir Pitt is encouraging to pay 
his addresses to one of the young ladies, with an understanding 
doubtless that he shall be presented to the living when it shall be 
vacated by his fox-hunting old sire. Jim has given up that sport 
himself, and confines himself to a little harmless duck or snipe- 
shooting, or a httle quiet trifling with the rats during the Christmas 
holidays, after which he will return to the University and try and 
not be plucked, once more. He has already eschewed green coats, 
red neckcloths, and other worldly ornaments, and is preparing him- 
self for a change in his condition. In this cheap and thrifty way^ 
Sir Pitt tries to pay off his debts to his family. 

Also before this merry Christmas was over, the baronet had 
screwed up courage enough to give his brother another draft on 
his bankers, and for no less a sum than a hundred pounds, an act 
which caused Sir Pitt cruel pangs at first, but which made him^ 
glow afterward to think himself one of the most generous of men 
Rawdon and his son went away with the utmost heaviness of 
heart. Becky and the ladies parted with some alacrity, however ; 
and our friend returned to London to commence those avocations 



504 VAJSriTY FAIR, 

with which we find her occupied when this chapter begins. Under 
her care the Crawley House in Great Gaunt Street was quite 
rejuvenescent, -and ready for the reception of Sir Pitt and his 
family, when the baronet came to London to attend his duties in 
parhament, and to assume that position in the country for which 
his vast genius fitted him. 

For the first session, this profound dissembler hid his projects 
and never opened his lips but to present a petition from Mudbury. 
But he attended assiduously in his place, and learned thoroughly 
the routine and business of the House. At home he gave him- 
self up to the perusal of blue books, to the alarm and wonder 
of Lady Jane, who thought he was killing himself by late 
hours and intense application. And he made acquaintance with 
the ministers, and the chiefs of his party, determining to rank as 
one of them before many years were over. 

Lady Jane's sweetness and kindness had inspired Rebecca with 
such a contempt for her ladyship as the little woman found no 
small difficulty in concealing. That sort of goodness and simplicity 
which Lady Jane possessed, - noyed our friend Becky, and it was 
impossible for her at times not to show, or to let the other divine 
her scorn. Her presence, too, rendered Lady Jane uneasy. Her 
husband talked constantly with Becky. Signs of intelligence 
seemed to pass between them ; and Pitt spoke with her on sub- 
jects on which he never thought of discoursing with Lady Jane. 
The latter did not understand them, to be sure, but it was mortifying 
to remain silent ; still more mortifying to know that you had nothing 
to say, and hear that little audacious Mrs. Rawdon dashing on 
from subject to subject, with a word for every man, and a joke 
always pat ; and to sit in one's own house alone, by the fireside, 
and watching all the men round your rival. 

In the country, when Lady Jane was telling stories to the chil- 
dren, who clustered about her knees (Uttle Rawdon into the 
bargain, who was very fond of her), and Becky came into the 
room, sneering with green, scornful eyes, poor Lady Jane grew 
silent under those baleful glances. Her simple little fancies 
shrank away tremulously, as fairies in the story-books before a 
superior bad angel. She could not go on, although Rebecca, with 
the smallest inflection of sarcasm in her voice, besought her to 
continue that charming story. And on her side, gentle thoughts 
and simple pleasures were odious to Mrs. Becky, they discorded 
with her ; she hated people for liking them -, she spurned children 
and children-lovers. " I have no taste for bread and butter," she 
would say, when caricaturing Lady Jane and her ways to my Lord 
Steyne. 

" No more has a certain person for holy water," his lordship 



BE T WEEN HA MPS HIRE A ND L OND ON. 505 

replied with a bow and a grin, and a great jarring laugh after* 
ward. 

So these two ladies did not see much of each other, except upon 
those occasions when the younger brother's wife, having an object 
to gain from the other, frequented her. They my-loved and my- 
deared each other assiduously, but kept apart generally ; whereas 
Sir Pitt, in the midst of his multiplied avocations, found daily time 
to see his sister-in-law. 

On the occasion of his first speaker's dinner, Sir Pitt took the 
opportunity of appearing before his sister-in-law in his new uniform 
— that old d:; lomatic suit, which he had worn when attache to the 
Pumpernickel legation. 

Becky complimented him upon that dress, and admired him 
almost as much as his own wife and children, to whom he 
displayed himself before he set out. She said that it was only the 
thorough-bred gentleman that could wear the court suit with 
advantage ; it was only your men of ancient race whom the 
cidotte courte became. Pitt looked down with complacency at his 
legs, which had not, in truth, much more symmetry or swell than 
the lean court sword which dangled by his side ; looked down at 
his legs, and thought in his heart that he was killing. 

When he was gone^ Mrs. Becky made a caricature of his figure, 
which she showed to Lord Steyne when he arrived. His lordship 
carried off the sketch, delighted with the accuracy of the resem- 
blance. He had done Sir Pitt Crawley the honor to meet him at 
Mrs. Becky's house, and had been most gracious to the new 
baronet and member. Pitt was struck, too, by the deference 
with which the great peer treated his sister-in-law, by her ease and 
sprightliness in the conversation, and by the delight with which 
the other men of the party listened to her talk. Lord Steyne 
made no doubt but that the baronet had only commenced his 
career in public life, and expected rather anxiously to hear him as 
an orator ; as they were neighbors (for Great Gaunt Street leads 
into Gaunt Square, whereof Gaunt House, as everybody knows, 
forms one side), my lord hoped that, as soon as Lady Steyne 
arrived in London, she would have the honor of making the 
acquaintance of Lady Crawley. He left a card upon his neighbor 
in the course of a day or two ; his neighbor whom he had, as 
his predecessor, never thought fit to notice, though they had lived 
near each other for near a century past. 

In the midst of these intrigues and fine parties and wise and 
brilliant personages, Rawdon felt himself more and more isolated 
every day. He was allowed to go to the club more ; to dine 
abroad with bachelor friends ; to come and go when he liked, 
without any questions being asked. And he and Rawdon the 



STRUGGLES AND TRIALS 



507 



younger many a time would walk to Gaunt Street, and sit with the 
lady and the children there while Sir Pitt was closeted with 
Rebecca, on his way to the House, or on his return from it. 

The ex-colonel would sit for hours in his brother's house ver}' 
silent, and thinking and doing as little as possible. He was glad 
to be employed of an errand ; to go and make inquiries about a 
horse or a servant ; or to carv^e the roast mutton for the dinner of 
the children. He was beat and cowed into laziness and submis- 
sion. Delilah had imprisoned him and cut his hair off, too. The 
bold and reckless young blood of ten years back was subjugated, 
and was turned into a torpid, submissive, middle-aged stout 
gentleman. 

And poor Lady Jane was aware that Rebecca had captivated 
her husband ; although she and Mrs. Rawdon my-deared and my- 
loved each other every day they met. 



5o8 



VANITY FAIR, 



CHAPTER XLVI. 



STRUGGLES AND TRIALS. 




UR friends at Brompton 
were meanwhile passing 
their Christmas after 
their fashion and in a 
manner by no means too 
cheerful. 

Out of the hundred 
pounds a year, which 
was about the amount of 
her income, the widow 
Osborne had been in the 
habit of giving up nearly 
three-fourths to her father 
and mother, for the ex- 
penses of herself and her 
little boy. With £\2q 
more, supplied by Jos, 
this family of four people 
attended by a single Irish 
servant, who also did for Clapp and his wife, might manage to live 
in decent comfort through the year, and hold up their heads yet, 
and be able to give a friend a dish of tea still, after the storms and 
disappointments of their early life. Sedley still maintained his as- 
cendancy over the family of Mr. Clapp, his ex-clerk. Clapp re- 
membered the time when, sitting on the edge of the chair, he 

tossed off a bumper to the health of " Mrs. S , Miss Emmy, and 

Mr. Joseph in India," at the merchant's rich table in Russell 
Square. Time magnified the splendor of those recollections in the 
honest clerk's bosom. Whenever he came up from the kitchen 
parlor to the drawing-room, and partook of tea or gin-and-water 
with Mr. Sedley, he would say, "This was not what you was 
accustomed to once, sir," and as gravely and reverentially drink 
the health of the ladies as he had done in the days of their utmost 
prosperity. He thought Miss 'Melia's playing the divinest music 
ever performed, and her the finest lady. He never would sit down 
before Sedley at the club even, nor would he have that gentle- 
man's character abused by any member of the society. He had 



STRUGGLES AND TRIALS, 509 

seen the first men in London shaking hands with Mr. S ; he 

said, " He'd known him in times when Rothschild might be seen 
on 'change with him any day, and he owed him personally every- 
think." 

Clapp, with the best of characters and handwritings, had been 
able very soon after his master's disaster to find other employment 
for himself. " Such a little fish as me can swim in any bucket," 
he used to remark, and a member of the house from which old 
Sedley had seceded was very glad to make use of Mr. Clajop's 
services, and to reward them with a comfortable salary. In fine, 
all Sedley's wealthy friends had dropped off one by one, and this 
poor ex-dependent still remained faithfully attached to him. 

Out of the small residue of her income, which Ameha kept back 
for herself, the widow had need of all the thrift and care possible 
in order to enable her to keep her darling boy dressed in such a 
manner as became George Osborne's son, and to defray the 
expenses of the little school to which, after much misgiving and 
reluctance, and many secret pangs and fears on her own part, she 
had been induced to send the lad. She had sat up of nights conning 
lessons and spelling over crabbed grammars and geography books 
in order to teach them to Georgy. She had worked even at the 
Latin accidence, fondly hoping that she might be capable of 
instructing him in that language. To part with him all day ; to 
send him out to the mercy of a schoolmaster's cane and his school- 
fellows' roughness, was almost like weaning him over again, to 
that weak mother so tremulous and full of sensibilig:y. He, for his 
part, rushed off to the school with the utmost happiness. He was 
longing for the change. That childish gladness wounded his 
mother, who was herself so grieved to part with him. She would 
rather have had him more sorry, she thought ; and then was deeply 
repentant within herself, for daring to be so selfish as to wish her 
own son to be unhappy. 

Georgy made great progress in the school, which was kept by a 
friend of his mother's constant admirer, the Rev. Mr. Binny. He 
brought home numberless prizes and testimonials of ability. He 
told his mother countless stories every night about his schoal com- 
panions : and what a fine fellow Lyons was, and what a sneak 
Sniffin was ; and how Steel's father actually supplied the meat for 
the establishment, whereas Golding's mother came in a carriage to 
fetch him every Saturday ; and how Neat had straps to his trousers 
— might he have straps? — and how Bull Major was so strong 
(though only in Eutropius) that it was believed he could lick the 
usher, Mr. Ward himself. So Amelia learned to know every one 
of the boys in that school as well as Georgy himself , and of nights 
she used to help him in his exercises and puzzle her little head 



Sio VANITY FAIR. 

over his lessons as eagerly as if she was herself going in the morn- 
ing into the presence of the master. Once, after a certain combat 
with Master Smith, George came home to his mother with a black 
eye, and bragged prodigiously to his parent and his delighted old 
grandfather about his valor in the fight, in which, if the truth was 
known, he did not behave with particular heroism, and in which 
he decidedly had the worst. But Amelia has never forgiven that 
Smith to this day, though he is now a peaceful apothecary near 
Leicester Square. 

In these quiet labors and harmless cares the gentle widow's life 
was passing away, a silver hair or two marking the progress of 
time on her head, and a line deepening ever so little on her fa'ir 
forehead. She used to smile at these marks of time. " What 
matters it?" she asked, "for an old woman like me?" All she 
hoped for was to see her son great, famous, and glorious, as he 
deserved to be. She kept his copybooks, his drawings, and com- 
positions, and showed them about in her little circle, as if they 
were miracles of genius. She confided some of these specimens to 
Miss Dobbin ; to show them to Miss Osborne, George's aunt, to 
show them to Mr. Osborne himself — to make that old man repent 
of his cruelty and ill-feeling toward him who was gone. All her 
husband's faults and foibles she had buried in the grave with him , 
she only remembered the lover who had married her at all sacri- 
fices \ the noble husband so brave and beautiful, in whose arms she 
had hung on the morning when he had gone away to fight, and 
die gloriously for his king. From heaven the hero must be smil- 
ing down upon that paragon of a boy whom he had left to comfort 
and console her. 

We have seen how one of George's grandfathers (Mr. Osborne), 
in his easy-chair in Russell Square, daily grew more violent and 
moody, and how his daughter, with her fine carriage, .and her fine 
horses, and her name on half the public charity-lists of the town, 
was a lonely, miserable, persecuted old maid. She thought again 
and again of the beautiful little boy, her brother's son, whom she 
had seen. She longed to be allowed to drive in the fine carriage 
to the house in which he lived , and she used to look out day after 
day as she took her solitary drive in the park, in hopes that she 
might see him. Her sister, the banker's lady, occasionally conde- 
scended to pay her old home and companion a visit in Russell 
Square. She brought a couple of sickly children attended by a 
prim nurse, and in a faint genteel giggling tone cackled to her sis- 
ter about her fine acquaintances, and how her little Frederick was 
the image of Lord Claud Lollypop, and her sweet Maria had been 
noticed by the baroness as they were driving in their donkey-chaise 
at Roehampton. She urged her to make her papa do something 



STRUGGLES AND TRIALS, 511 

for the darlings. Frederick she had determined should go into the 
Guards ; and if they made an elder son of him (and Mr. Bullock 
was positively ruining and pinching himself to death to buy land), 
how was the darling girl to be provided for ? "I expect you^ 
dear," Mrs. Bullock would say, " for of course my share of our 
papa's property must go to the head of the house, you know. 
Dear Rhoda McNuU will disengage the whole of the Castletoddy 
property as soon as poor dear Lord Castletoddy dies, who is quite 
epileptic ; and little Macduff McNuU will be Viscount Castletoddy. 
Both the Mr. Bludyers of Mincing Lane have settled their for- 
tunes on Fanny Bludyer's little boy. My darling Frederick must 
positively be an eldest son ; and — and do ask papa to bring us 
back his account in Lombard Street, will you, dear ? It doesn't 
look well, his going to Stumpy and Rowdy's." After which kind 
of speeches, in which fashion and the main chance were blended 
together, and after a kiss, which was like the contact of an oyster 
— Mrs. Frederick Bullock would gather her starched nurslings, 
and simper back into her carriage. 

Every visit which this leader of ton paid to her family was more 
unlucky for her. Her father paid more money into Stumpy and 
Rowdy's. Her patronage became more and more insufferable. 
The poor widow in the little cottage at Brompton, guarding her 
treasure there, little knew how eagerly some people coveted it. 

On that night when Jane Osborne had told her father that she 
had seen his grandson, the old man had made her no reply ; but he 
had shown no anger — and had bade her good-night on going him- 
self to his room in rather a kindly voice. And he must have med- 
itated on what she said, and have made some inquiries of the 
Dobbin family regarding her visit ; for a fortnight after it took 
place, he asked her where was her little French watch and chain 
she used to wear .? 

" I bought it with my money, sir," she said in a great fright. 

" Go and order another like it, or a better if you can get it," 
said the old gentleman, and lapsed again into silence. 

Of late the Misses Dobbin more than once repeated their 
entreaties to Amelia, to allow George to visit them. His aunt 
had shown her inclination ; perhaps his grandfather himself they 
hinted, might be disposed to be reconciled to him. Surely, 
Amelia could not refuse such advantageous chances for the boy. 
Nor could she ; but she acceded to their overtures with a very 
heavy and suspicious heart, was always uneasy during the child's 
absence from her, and welcomed him back as if he was rescued 
out of some danger. He brought back money and toys, at which 
the widow looked with alarm and jealousy ; she asked always if he 
had seen any gentleman — " Only old Sir William, who drove him 



512 VANITY FAIR. 

about in the four-wheeled chaise, and Mr. Dobbin, who arrived or 
the beautiful bay-horse in the afternoon — in the green coat and 
pink neckcloth, with the gold-headed whip, who promised to show 
him the Tower of London, and take him out with the Surrey 
hounds." At last, he said "There was an old gentleman, with 
thick eyebrows and a broad hat, and large chain and seals." He 
came one day as the coachman was lunging Georgy round the 
lawn on the gray pony. " He looked at me very much. He 
shook very much. I said ' My name is Norval ' after dinner. My 
aunt began to cry. She is always crying." Such was George's 
report on that night. 

Then Amelia knew that the boy had seen his grandfather ; and 
looked out feverishly for a proposal which she was sure would fol- 
low, and which came, in fact, in a few days afterward. Mr. 
Osborne formally offered to take the boy, and make him heir to 
the fortune which he had intended that his father should inherit. 
He would make Mrs. George Osborne an allowance, such as to 
assure her a decent competency. If Mrs. George Osborne pro- 
posed to marry again, as Mr. O. heard was her intention, he would 
not withdraw that allowance. But it must be understood, that the 
child would live entirely with his grandfather in Russell Square, 
or at whatever other place Mr. O. should select; and that he 
would be occasionally permitted to see Mrs. George Osborne at 
her own residence. This message was brought or read to her in a 
letter one day, when her mother was from home, and her father 
absent, as usual, in the city. 

She was never seen angry but twice or thrice in her life, and it 
was in one of these moods that Mr. Osborne's attorney had the 
fortune to behold her. She rose up trembling and flushing very 
much as soon as, after reading the letter, Mr. Poe handed it to 
her, and she tore the paper into a hundred fragments, which she 
trod on. " I marry again ! — I take money to part from my child ! 
Who dares insult me by proposing such a thing ? Tell Mr. 
Osborne it is a cowardly letter, sir — a cowardly letter — I will not 
answer it. I wish you good-morning, sir — and she bowed me out 
of the room like a tragedy queen," said the lavv^yer, who told the 
story. 

Her parents never remarked her agitation on that day, and she 
never told them of the interview. They had their own affairs 
which deeply interested this innocent and unconscious lady. The 
old gentleman, her father, was always dabbling in speculation. 
We have seen how the wine company and the coal company had 
failed him. But, prowling about the city always eagerly and rest' 
lessly still, he lighted upon some other scheme, of which he 
thought so well that he embarked in it in spite of the remonstran- 



STRUGGLES AND TRIALS. 513 

ces of Mr. Clapp, to whom indeed he never dared to tell how far 
he had engaged himself in it. And as it was always Mr. Sedley's 
maxim not to talk about money matters before women, they had 
no inkling of the misfortunes that were in store for them until the 
unhappy old gentleman was forced to make gradual confessions. 

The bills of the little household, which had been settled weekly 
first, fell into arrear. The remittances had not arrived from India 
Mr. Sedley told his wife with a disturbed face. As she had paid 
her bills very regularly hitherto, one or two of the tradesmen to 
whom the poor lady was obliged to go round asking for time were 
very angry at a delay to which they were perfectly used from more 
irregular customers. Emmy's contribution, paid over cheerfully 
without any questions, kept the little company in half rations how- 
ever. And the hrst six months passed away pretty easily ; old 
Sedley still keeping up with the notion that his shares must rise 
and that all would be well. 

No sixty pounds, however, came to help the household at the 
end of the half year ; and it fell deeper and deeper into trouble — 
Mrs. Sedley, who was growing infirm and was much shaken, 
remained silent or wept a great deal with Mrs. Clapp in the kitch- 
en. The butcher was particularly surly ; the grocer insolent ; once 
or twice little Georgy had grumbled about the dinners , and Ame- 
lia, who still would have been satisfied with a slice of bread for her 
own dinner, could not but perceive that her son was neglected, 
and purchased little things out of her private purse to keep the 
boy in health. 

At last they told her, or told her such a garbled story as people 
in difficulties tell. One day, her own money having been received 
and Amelia about to pay it over ; she who had kept an account of 
the moneys expended by her, proposed to keep a certain portion 
back out of her dividend, having contracted engagements for a 
new suit for Georgy. 

Then it came out that Jos's remittances were not paid ; that the 
house was in difficulties, which Amelia ought to have seen before, 
her mother said, but she cared for nothing or nobody except 
Georgy. At this she passed all her money across the table, with- 
out a word to her mother, and returned to her room to cry her 
eyes out. She had a great access of sensibility, too, that day, when 
obliged to go and countermand the clothes, the darling clothes on 
which she had set her heart for Christmas day, and the cut and 
fashion of which she had arranged in many conversations with a 
small milliner, her friend. 

Hardest of all, she had to break the matter to Georgy, who 
made a loud outcry. Everybody had new clothes at Christmas. 
The others would laugh at him. He would have new clothes. 

2iZ 



514 VANITY FAIR. 

She had promised them to him. The poor widow had only kisses 
to give him. She darned the old suit in tears. She cast about 
among her little ornaments to see if she could sell an3'thing to 
procure the desired novelties. There was her India shawl that 
Dobbin had sent her. She remembered in former days going with 
her mother to a fine India shop on Ludgate Hill, where the ladies 
had all sorts of dealings and bargains in these articles. Her 
cheeks flushed and her eyes shone with pleasure as she thought 
of this resource, and she kissed away George to school in the 
morning, smiling brightly after him. The boy felt that there was 
good news in her look. 

Packing up her shawl in a handkerchief (another of the gifts of 
the good major), she hid them under her clotik, and walked flushed 
and eager all the way to Ludgate Hill, tripping along by the park 
wall, and running over the crossings, so that many a man turned 
as she hurried by him, and looked af cer her rosy, pretty face. She 
calculated how she should spend the proceeds of her shawl ; 
how, besides the clothes, she would buy the books that he longed 
for, and pay his half-year's schooling ; and how she would buy a 
cloak for her father instead of that old great-coat which he wore. 
She was not mistaken as to the value of the major's gift. It was 
a very fine and beautiful web ; and the merchant made a very 
good bargain when he gave her twenty guineas for her shawl 

She ran on amazed and flurried with her riches to Barton's shop 
in St. Paul's Churchyard, and there purchased the " Parents' 
Assistant," and the " Sandford and Merton " Georgy longed for, 
and got into the coach there with her parcel, and went home 
exulting. And she pleased herself by writing in the fly-leaf in her 
neatest little hand, " George Osborne, A Christmas gift from his 
affectionate mother. ^ The books are extant to this day with the 
fair, delicate superscription. 

She was going from her own room, with the books in her hand 
to place them on George's table, where he might find them on his 
return from school ; when in the passage she and her mother met. 
The gilt bindings of the seven handsome little volumes caught the 
old lady's eye. 

" What are those ? " she said. 

" Some books for Georg)'," Amelia replied — " I — I promised 
them to him at Christmas." 

" Books ! " cried the elder lady, indignantly, " Books, when 
the whole house wants bread ! Books, when to keep you and 
your son in luxury, and your dear father out of jail, I've sold 
every trinket I had, the India shawl from my back — even down to 
the very spoons, that our tradesmen mightn't insult us, and that Mr. 
Clapp, which indeed he is justly entitled, being not a hard land- 



I 



STRUGGLES AND TRIALS, 515 

lord, and a civil man, and a father, might have his rent. O Amelia ! 
you break my heart with your books, and that boy of yours, whom 
you are ruining, though part with him you will not. O Amelia ! 
may God send you a more dutiful child than I have had ! There's 
Jos deserts his father in his old age ; and there's George, who 
might be provided for, and who might be rich, going to school like 
a lord, with a gold watch and chain round his neck ; while my 
dear, dear old man is without a sh — shilling." Hysteric sobs and 
cries ended Mrs. Sedley's speech. It echoed through every room 
in the small house, whereof the other female inmates heard every 
word of the colloquy. 

" O mother, mother ! " cried the poor Amelia in reply. " You 
told me nothing ; I — I promised him the books. I — I only sold 
my shawl this morning. Take the money — take everything " — 
and with quivering hands she took out her silver and her sover- 
eigns — her precious golden sovereigns, which she thrust into the 
hands of her mother, whence they overflowed and tumbled, rolling 
dov/n the stairs. 

And then she went into her room, and sank down in despair 
and utter misery. She saw it all now. Her selfishness was sacri- 
ficing the boy. But for her he might have wealth, station, educa- 
tion, and his father's place, which the elder George had forfeited 
for her sake. She had but to speak the words, and her father was 
restored to competency ; and the boy raised to fortune. Oh, what 
a conviction it was to that tender and stricken heart ! 



5i6 



VANITY FAIR. 



CHAPTER XLVII. 



GAUNT HOUSE. 




LL the world knows that Loid Steyne's 
town palace stands in Gaunt Square, out 
of which Great Gaunt Street leads, whither 
we first conducted Rebecca, in the time of 
the departed Sir Pitt Crawle}'. Peering 
over the railings and through the black 
trees into the garden of the square, you see 
a few miserable governesses with wan-faced 
pupils wandering round and round it, and 
round the dreary grass-plot in the center of 
which rises the statue of Lord Gaunt, who 
fought at Minden, in a three-tailed wig, 
and otherwise habited like a Roman em- 
peror. Gaunt House occupies nearly a 
side of the square. The remaining three 
sides are composed of mansions that have 
passed away into dowagerism — tall dark 
houses, with window-frames of stone, or 
picked out of a lighter red. Little light 
seems to be behind those lean, comfortless casements now ; and 
hospitality to have passed away from those doors as much as the 
laced lackeys and link-boys of old times, who used to put out 
their torches in the blank iron extinguishers that still flank the 
lamps over the steps. Brass plates have penetrated into the 
square — doctors, the Diddlesex Bank Western Branch — the 
English and European Reunion, etc. — it has a dreary look — nor is 
my Lord Steyne's palace less dreary. All I have ever seen of it 
is the vast wall in front, with the rustic columns at the great gate, 
through which an old porter peers sometimes with a fat and 
gloomy red face — and over the wall the garret . and bedroom win- 
dows and the chimney out of which there seldom comes any smoke 
now. For the present Lord Steyne lives at Naples, preferring the 
view of the bay and Capri and Vesuvius, to the dreary aspect of 
the wall in Gaunt Square. 

A few score yards down New Gaunt Street, and leading into 
Gaunt Mews indeed, is a little modest back door, which you would 
not remark from that of any of the other stables. But many a lit- 



GAUNT HOUSE. 



517 



tie close carriage had stopped at that door, as my informant (little 
Tom Eaves, who knows everything, and who showed me the place) 
told me. " The prince and Perdita have been in and out of that 
door, sir," he has often told me ; " Marianne Clarke has entered it 

with the Duke of . It conducts to the famous petits apparte- 

ments of Lord Steyne — one, sir, fitted up all in ivory and white 
satin, another in ebony and black velvet ; there is a little banquet- 
ing-room taken from Sallust's house at Pompeii, and painted by 
Cosway — a little private kitchen, in which every saucepan was sil- 
ver and all the spits were gold. It was there that Egalite Orleans 
roasted partridges on the night when he and the Marquis of Steyne 
won a hundred thousand from a great personage at ombre. Half 
of the money went to the French Revolution, half to purchase 
Lord Gaunt's marquisate and garter — and the remainder — " but it 
forms no part of our scheme to tell what became of the remainder, 
for every shilling of which, and a great deal more, little Tom 
Eaves, who knows everybody's affairs, is ready to account. 

Besides his town palace, the marquis has castles and palaces in 
various quarters of the three kingdoms, vvhereof the descriptions 
may be found in the road-books — Castle Strongbow, with its 
Avoods, on the Shannon shore ; Gaunt Castle, in Carmarthenshire, 
where Richard II. was taken prisoner — Gauntly Hall in Yorkshire, 
where I have been informed there were two hundred silver teapots 
for the breakfasts of the guests of the house, with everything to 
correspond in splendor ; and Stillbrook in Hampshire, which was 
my lord's farm, a humble place of residence, of which we all 
remember the wonderful furniture which was sold at my lord's 
demise by a late celebrated auctioneer. 

The Marchioness of Steyne was of the renowned and ancient 
family of the Caerlyons, Marquises of Camelot, who have pre- 
ser\^ed the old faith ever since the conversion of the venerable 
Druid, their first ancestor, and A\'hose pedigree goes far beyond the 
date of the arrival of King Brute in these islands. Pendragon is 
the title of the eldest son of the house. The sons have been 
called Arthurs, Uthers, and Caradocs, from immemorial time. 
Their heads have fallen in many a loyal conspiracy. Elizabeth 
chopped off the head of the Arthur of her day, who had been 
Chamberlain to Philip and Mary, and carried letters between the 
Queen of Scots and her uncles the Guises. A cadet of the house 
was an officer of the great duke, and distinguished in the famous 
Saint Bartholomew conspiracy. During the whole of Mary's con- 
finement, the house of Camelot conspired in her behalf. It was 
as much injured by its charges in fitting out an armament against 
the Spaniards, during the time of the Armada, as by the fines and 
confiscations levied on it by Elizabeth for harboring of priests, 



5i8 VANITY FAIR. 

obstinate recusancy, and Popish misdoings. A recreant of Jameses 
time was momentarily perverted from his religion by the arguments 
of that great theologian, and the fortunes of the family somewhat 
restored by his timely weakness. But the Earl of Camelot, of the 
reign of Charles, returned to the old creed of his family, and they 
continued to fight for it, and ruin themselves for it, as long as 
there was a Stuart left to head or to instigate a rebellion. 

Lady Mary Caerl3^on was brought up at a Parisian convent ; 
the Dauphiness Marie Antoinette was her grandmother. In the 
pride of her beauty she had been married — sold, it was said — to 
Lord Gaunt, then at Paris, who won vast sums from the lady's 
brother at some of Philip of Orleans's banquets. The Earl of 
Gaunt's famous duel with the Count de la Marche, of the Gray 
Musqueteers, was attributed by common report to the pretensions 
of that officer (who had been a page and remained a favorite of 
the queen) to the hand of the beautiful Lady Mary Caerlyon. She 
was married to Lord Gaunt while the count lay ill of his wound, 
and came to dwell at Gaunt House, and to figure for a short time- 
in the splendid court of the Prince of Wales. Fox had toasted 
her. Morris and Sheridan had written songs about her. Malmes- 
bury had made her his best bow ; Walpole had pronounced her 
charming ; Devonshire had been almost jealous of her ; but she 
was scared by the wild pleasures and gayeties of the society into 
which she was flung, and after she had borne a couple of sons, 
shrank away into a life of devout seclusion. No wonder that my 
Lord Steyne, who liked pleasure and cheerfulness, was not often 
seen after their marriage, by the side of this trembling, silent,, 
superstitious, unhappy lady. 

The before mentioned Tom Eaves (who has no part in this his- 
tory, except that he knew all the great folks in London, and the 
stories and mysteries of each family), had further information 
regarding m.y Lady Steyne which may or may not be true. " The 
humiliations," Tom used to say, " which that woman has been 
made to undergo, in her own house, have been frightful ; Lord 
Steyne has made her sit down to table with women with whom I 
would rather die than allow Mrs. Eaves to associate — with Lady 
Crackenbury, with Mrs. Chippenham, with Madame de la Cruche- 
cassee, the French secretary's wife," (from every one of which 
ladies Tom Eaves — who would have sacrificed his wife for know- 
ing them — was too glad to get a bow or a dinner), " with the reign- 
ing favorite^ in a word. And do you suppose that that woman of 
that family, who are as proud as the Bourbons, and to whom the 
Steynes are but lackeys, mushrooms of yesterday (for after alU 
they are not of the old Gaunts, but of a minor and doubtful branch 
of th£ house) ; do you suppose, I say," (the reader must bear in 



GAUNT HOUSE. 519 

mind that it is always Tom Eaves who speaks), " that the Mar- 
chioness of Steyne, the haughtiest woman in England, would bend 
down to her husband so submissively, if there were not some 
cause ? Pooh ! I tell you there are secret reasons. I tell you that 
in the emigration, the Abbe de la Marche, who was here and was 
employed in the Quiberoon business with Puisaye and Tinteniac, was 
the same Colonel of Mosquetaires Gris with whom Steyne fought in 
the year '86 — that he and the marchioness met again ; that it was 
after the reverend colonel was shot in Brittany that Lady Steyne 
took to those extreme practices of devotion which she carries on 
now ; for she is closeted with her director every day — she is at 
service at Spanish Place, every morning, I've watched her there — 
that is, I've happened to be passing there — and depend on it 
there's a mystery in her case. People are not so unhappy unless 
they have something to repent of," added Tom Eaves with a know- 
ing wag of his head ; " and depend on it, that w^oman would not 
be so submissive as she is, if the marquis had not some sword to 
hold over her." 

So, if Mr. Eaves's information be correct, it is ver)^ likely that 
this lady, in her high station, had to submit to many a private 
indignity, and to hide many secret griefs under a calm face. And 
let us, my brethren, who have not our names in the Red Book, 
console ourselves by thinking comfortably how miserable our bet- 
ters may be, and that Damocles, who sits on satin cushions, and 
is served on gold plate, has an awful sword hanging over his head 
in the shape of a bailiff, or an hereditary disease, or a family 
secret, which peeps out every now and then from the embroidered 
arras in a ghastly manner, and will be sure to drop one day or 
the other in the right place. 

In comparing, too, the poor man's situation with that of the 
great, there is (always according to Mr. Eaves) another source of 
comfort for the former. You who have little or no patrimony to 
bequeath or to inherit, may be on good terms with your father or 
your son, whereas the heir of a great prince, such as my Lord 
Steyne, must naturally be angr}' at being kept out of his kingdom, 
and eye the occupant of it with no very agreeable glances. " Take 
it as a rule," this sardonic old Eaves would say, " the fathers and 
elder sons of all great families hate each other. The crown prince 
is always in opposition to the crown, or hankering after it. 
Shakespeare knew the world, my good sir, and when he describes 
Prince Hal (from whose family the Gaunts pretended to be 
descended, though they are no more related to John of Gaunt 
than you are), trying on his father's coronet, he gives you a natural 
description of all heirs-apparent. If you were heir to a dukedom 
and a thousand pounds a day, do you mean to say you w^ould no* 



520 VAA'ITY FAIR. 

wish for possession ? Pooh ! And it stands to reason that every 
great man, having experienced this feeling toward his father, must 
be aware that his son entertains it toward himself ; and so they 
can't but be suspicious and hostile. 

" Then again, as to the feeling of elder toward younger sons. 
My dear sir, you ought to know that every elder brother looks 
upon the cadets of the house as his natural enemies, who deprive 
him of so much ready money which ought to be his by right. I 
have often heard George MacTurk, Lord Bajazet's eldest son, say 
that if he had his will when he came to the title, he would do what 
the sultans do, and clear the estate by chopping off all his younger 
brothers' heads at once ; and so the case is, more or less, with 
them all. I tell you they are all Turks in their hearts. Pooh i 
sir, they know the world." And here, haply, a great man coming 
up, Tom Eaves's hat would drop off his head, and he would rush 
forward with a bow and a grin, which showed that he knew the 
world too — in a Tomeavesian way, that is. And having laid out 
every shilling of his fortune on an annuity, Tom could afford to 
bear no malice to his nephews and nieces, and to have no other 
feeling with regard to his betters, but a constant and generous 
desire to dine with them. 

BetAveen the marchioness and the natural and tender regard of 
mother for children, there was that cruel barrier placed of differ- 
ence of faith. The very love which she might feel for her sons, 
only served to render the timid and pious lady more fearful and un- 
happy. The gulf which separated them was fatal and impassable. 
She could not stretch out her weak arms across it, or draw her chil- 
dren over to that side away from which her belief told her there was 
no safety. During the youth of his sons, Lord Steyne, who was a 
good scnolar and amateur casuist, had no better sport in the eve- 
ning after dinner in the country than in setting the boy's tutor, 
the Revel end Mr. Trail (now my Lord Bishop of Ealing) on her 
ladyship's director. Father Mole, over their wine, and in pitting 
Oxford against St. Acheul. He cried " Bravo, Latimer ! Well 
said Loyola ! " alternately ; he promised INIole a bishopric if he 
would come over ; and vowed he would use all his influence to get 
Trail a cardinal's hat if he would secede. Neither divine allowed 
himself to be conquered ; and though the fond mother hoped that 
her youngest and favorite son would be reconciled to her church 
— his mother's church — a sad and awful disappointment awaited 
the devout lady — a disappointment which seemed to be a judg- 
ment upon her for the sin of her marriage. 

My Lord Gaunt married, as every person who frequents the 
peerage knows, the Lady Blanche Thistlewood, a daughter of the 
noble house of Bareacres, before mentioned in this veracious his- 



GAUN7 HOUSE. 



521 



tory. A wing of Gaunt Hous^ 
the head of the family chose 



: was assigned to this couple ; for 
to govern it, and while he reigned 
to reign supreme ; his son and heir, however, living little at home, 
disagreeing with his wife, borrowing upon post-obit such moneys 




as he required beyond the very moderate sums which his father was 
disposed to allow him. The marquis knew every shilling of his 
son's debts. At his lamented demise he was found- himself to be 
the possessor of many of his heir's bonds purchased for their ben- 
efit, and devised by his- lordship to the children of his youngest son. 
As to my Lord Gaunt's dismay, and the chuckling delight of his 
natural enemy and father, the Lady Gaunt had no children, the 
Lord George Gaunt was desired to return from Vienna, where he 
was engaged in waltzing and diplomacy, and to contract a matri- 



522 VANITY FAIR, 

monial alliance with the Honorable Joan, only daughter of John 
Johnes, First Baron Helveliyn, and head of the firm of Jones, 
Brown, and Robinson, of Threadneedle Street, bankers ; from 
which union sprang several sons and daughters, whose doings do 
not appertain to this stor}'. 

The marriage at first was a happy and prosperous one. My 
Lord George Gaunt could not only read, but write pretty correctly. 
He spoke French with considerable fluenc}-, and was one of the 
finest waltzers in Europe. With these talents, and his interest at 
home, there was little doubt that his lordship would rise to the 
highest dignities in his profession. The Lady, his wife, felt that 
courts were her sphere ; and her wealth enabled her to receive 
splendidly in those continental towns whither her husband's diplo- 
matic duties led him. There was talk of appointing him minister, 
and bets were laid at the Travelers' that he would be ambassador 
ere long, when of a sudden rumors arrived of the secretary's extra- 
ordinary behavior. At a grand diplomatic dinner given by his 
chief, he had started up and declared that -a. pate de foie gras was 
poisoned. He went to a ball at the hotel of the Bavarian envoy, 
the Count de Springbock-Hohenlaufen, with his head shaved, and 
dressed as a Capuchin friar. It was not a masked-ball as some 
folks wanted to persuade you. It was something queer, people 
whispered. His grandfather was so. It was in the family. 

His wife and family returned to this countr}', and took up their 
abode at Gaunt House. Lord George gave up his post on the 
European continent, and was gazetted to Brazil. But people knew 
better ; he never returned from that Brazil expedition — never died 
there — never lived there — never was there at all. He was no- 
where, he was gone out altogether. " Brazil," said one gossip to an- 
other with a grin — " Brazil is St. John's Wood. Rio Janeiro is a 
cottage surrounded by four walls ; and Ceorge Gaunt is accredited 
to a keeper, who has invested him with the order of Strait Waist- 
coat." These are the kinds of epitaphs which men pass over one 
another in A^anit}' Fair. 

Twice or thrice in a week, in the earliest morning, the poor 
mother went for her sins and saw the poor invalid. Sometimes he 
laughed at her (and his laughter was more pitiful than to hear him 
cry) ; sometimes she found the brilliant dandy diplomatist of the 
Congress of Vienna dragging about a child's toy, or nursing the 
keeper's baby's doll. Sometimes he knew her and Father Mole, 
her director and companion ; oftener he forgot her, as he had done 
wife, children, love, ambition, vanity. But he remembe-red his 
dinner-hour, and used to cry if his wine and water was not strong 
enough. 

It was the mysterious taint of the blood ; the poor mother had 



GAUNT HOUSE, 523 

brought it from her own ancient race. The e\*il had broken out 
once or t^ice in the father's family, long before Lady Ste}-ne"5 sins 
had begun, or her fasts, and tears, and penances had been o5ered 
in their expiation. The pride of the rake was struck down as the 
first-born of Pharaoh. The dark mark of the fate and doom was 
on the threshold — the tall old threshold surmounted by coronets 
and caned heraldr}-. 

The absent lord's children meanwhile prattled and grew on, 
quite unconscious that the doom was over them too. First they 
talked of their father, and devised plans against his return. Then 
the name of the li^Tng dead man was less frequently in their 
mouths — then not mentioned at alL But the stricken old grand- 
mother trembled to think that these too were the inheritors of their 
father's shame, as well as of his honors : and watched sickening 
for the day when the awful ancestral curse should come down on 
them. 

This dark presentiment also haunted Lord Sre}Tie. He tried to 
lay the horrid bed side ghost in Red Seas of wine and jollit}", and 
lost sight of it sometimes in the crowd and rout of his pleasures. 
But it always came back to him when alone, and seemed to grow 
more threatening with years. " I have taken your son," it said, 
"" why not you ? I may shut you up in a prison some day, like 
your son George. I may tap you on the head to-morrow, and 
away go pleasure, and honors, feasts and beaut}*, friends, flatterers, 
French cooks, fine horses and houses — in exchange for a prison, a 
keeper, and a straw mattress like George Gaunt's." And then my 
lord would defy the ghost that threatened him : for he knew of a 
remedy by which he could balk his enemy. 

So there was splendor and wealth, but no great happiness per- 
chance, behind the tall carded portals of Gaunt House with its 
smoky coronets and ciphers. The feasts there were of the grand- 
est in London, but there Mas not overmuch content therewith, 
except among the guests who sat at m)' lord's table. Had he not 
been so great a prince ver}- few possibly would have visited him ; 
but in Vanity Fair the sins of ver}- great personages are looked at 
indulgently. " jyaus regardons a ikux fois "' (as the French lady 
said) before we condemn a person of my lord's undoubted qualit}*. 
Some notorious carpers and squeamish moralists might be sulky 
with Lord Steyne, but they were glad enough to come when he 
asked them. 

" Lord Ste}-ne is real!}- too bad," Lady Slingstone said, " but 
everybody goes, and of course I shall see that my girls come to no 
harm." ■• His lordship is a man to whom I owe much, ever}-thing 
in life," said the Right Reverend Doctor Trail, thinking that the 
archbishop was rather shaky ; and Mrs. Trail and the young ladies 



524 



VANITY FAIR. 



would as soon missed going to church as to one of his lordship's 
parties. " His morals are bad," said little Lord Southdown to his 
sister, who meekly expostulated, having heard terrific legends from 




her mamma with respect to the doings at Gaunt House ; *' but 
hang it, he's got the best dry Siller}^ in Europe 1 " And as for Sir 
Pitt Crawley, Bart. — Sir Pitt, that pattern of decorum — Sir Pitt, 
who had led off at missionary meetings — he never for one moment 
thought of not going too. " Where you see such persons as the 
Bishop of Ealing and the Countess of Slingstone, you may be 
pretty sure, Jane," the baronet would say, " that we can not be 
wrong. The great rank and station of Lord Steyne put him in a 
position to command people in our station in life. The lord-lieu- 



i 



GAUNT HOUSE. i^t^ 

tenant of a county, my dear, is a respectable man. Besides, 
George Gaunt and I were intimate in early life ; he was my junior 
when we were attaches at Pumpernickel together." 

In a word ever}^body went to wait upon this great man — every- 
body who was asked : as you the reader (do not say nay) or I the 
writer hereof would go It we had an invitation. 



5-20 



VANITY FAIR. 



CHAPTER XLVIII. 

IN WHICH THE READER IS INTRODUCED TO THE VERY BEST 
OF COMPANY. 

T last Becky's kindness and atten^ 
tion to the chief of her husband's 
family were destined to meet 
with an exceeding great reward ; 
a reward which, though certainly 
somewhat unsubstantial, the lit- 
tle woman coveted with greater 
eagerness than more positive 
benefits. If she did not wish to 
lead a virtuous life, at least she 
desired to enjoy a character for 
virtue, and we know that no lady 
in the genteel world can possess 
this desideratum, until she has 
put on a train and feathers, and 
has been presented to her sov- 
ereign at court. From that au- 
gust interv^iew they come out 
stamped as honest women. 
The lord chamberlain gives 
them a certificate of virtue. 
And as dubious goods or letters 
are passed through an oven at 
quarantine, sprinkled with aro- 
matic vinegar, and then pro- 
nounced clean — many a lady whose reputation would be doubtful 
otherwise and liable to give infection, passes though the wholesome 
ordeal. of the royal presence, and issues from it free from all taint. 
It might be very well for my Lady Ba eacres, my Lady Tufto, 
Mrs. Bute Crawley in the country, and other ladies who had come 
into contact with Mrs. Rawdon Crawley, to cr}^ fie at the idea of 
the odious little adventuress making her courtesy before the sover- 
eign, and to declare that, if dear good Queen Charlotte had been 
alive, she never would have admitted such an extremely ill-regulated 
personage into her chaste drawing-room. But when we consider 




THE VERY BEST OF COMPANY, 527 

that it was the first gentleman in Europe in whose high presence 
Mrs. Rawdon passed her examination, and as it were, took her de- 
gree in reputation, it surely must be flat disloyalty to doubt any 
more about her virtue. I, for my part, look back with love and awe 
to that great character in history. Ah, what a high and noble ap- 
preciation of gentlewomanhood there must have been in Vanity 
Fair, when that revered and august being was invested, by the uni- 
versal acclaim of the refined and educated portion of this empire, 
with the title of Premier Gentilhomme of his kingdom. Do you 

remember, dear M , oh, friend of my youth, how one blissful 

night five and twenty years since, the " Hypocrite " being acted, 
Elliston being manager, Dawton and Listen performers, two boys 
had leave from their loyal masters to go out from Slaughter House 
School where they were educated, and to appear on Drury Lane 
stage, among a crowd which assembled there to greet the king. 
THE KING ? There he was. Beef-eaters were before the august 
box ; the Marquis of Steyne (Lord of the Powder Closet) and other 
great officers of state were behind the chair on which he sat, he sat 
— florid of face, portly of person, covered with orders, and in a rich 
curling head of hair — How we sang God save him ! How the house 
rocked and shouted with that magnificent music. How they cheer- 
ed and cried, and waved handkerchiefs. Ladies wept : mothers 
clasped their children : some fainted with emotion. People were 
suffocated in the pit, shrieks and groans rising up amid the writh- 
ing and shouting mass there of his people who were, and indeed 
showed themselves almost to be, ready to die for him. Yes, we saw 
him. Fate can not deprive us of that. Others have seen Napoleon. 
Some few still exist who have beheld Frederick the Great, Doctor 
Johnson, Marie Antoinette, etc. — be it our reasonable boast to our 
children, that we saw George the Good, the Magnificent, the Great. 

Well, there came a happy day in Mrs. Rawdon Crawley's exist- 
ence when this angel was admitted into the paradise of a court 
which she coveted ; her sister-in-law acting as her godmother. On 
the appointed day, Sir Pitt and his lady, in their great family car- 
riage (just newly built, and ready for the baronet's assumption of 
the office of high sheriff of his county), drove up to the little house 
in Curzon Street, to the edification of Raggles, who was watching 
from his greengrocer's shop, and saw fine plumes within, and enor- 
mous bunches of flowers in the breasts of the new livery-coats of 
the footmen. 

Sir Pitt, in a glittering uniform, descended and went into Curzon 
Street, his sword between his legs. Little Rawdon stood with his 
face against the parlor window-panes, smiling and nodding with all 
his might to his aunt in the carriage within ; and presently Sir Pitt 
issued forth from the house again, leading forth a lady with grand 



528 VANITY FAIR. 

feathers, covered in a white shawl, and holding up daintil}^ a train 
of magnificent brocade. She stepped into the vehicle as if she 
were a princess and accustomed all her life to go to court, smiling 
graciously on the footman at the door, and on Sir Pitt, who fol- 
lowed her into the carriage. 

Then Rawdon followed in his old Guards' uniform, which had 
grown wofully shabby, and was much too tight. He was to have 
followed the procession, and waited upon his sovereign in a cab ; 
but that his good-natured sister-in-law insisted that they should be 
a family party. The coach was large, the ladies not very big, they 
would hold their trains in their laps — finally, the four went frater- 
nally together; and their carriage presently joined the line of royal 
equipages which was making its way down Piccadilly and St. James's 
Street, toward the old brick palace where the star of Brunswick was 
in waiting to receive his nobles and gentlefolks. 

Becky felt as if she could bless the people out of the carriage 
windows, so elated was she in spirit, and so strong a sense had she 
of the dignified position which she had at last attained in life. 
Even our Becky had her weaknesses, and as one often sees how 
men pride themselves upon excellencies which others are slow to 
perceive ; how, for instance, Comus firmly believes that he is the 
greatest tragic actor in England ; how Brown, the famous novelist, 
longs to be considered, not a man of genius, but a man of fashion ; 
while Robinson, the great lawyer, does not in the least care about 
his reputation in Westminster Hall, but believes himself incompar- 
able across country, and at a five-barred gate — so to be, and to be 
thought, a respectable woman was Becky's aim in life, and she got 
up the genteel with amazing assiduity, readiness, and success. We 
have said there were times when she believed herself to be a fine 
lady, and forgot that there was no money in the chest at home 
— duns round the gate, tradesmen to coax and wheedle — no ground 
to walk upon, in a word. And as she went to court in the carriage 
she adopted a demeanor so grand, self-satisfied, deliberate, and im- 
posing that it made even Lady Jane laugh. She walked into the 
royal apartments with a toss of the head which would have befitted 
an empress, and I have no doubt had she been one, she would have 
become the character perfectly. 

We are authorized to state that Mrs. Rawdon Crawley's costume 
de cour on the occasion of her presentation to the sovereign was of 
the most elegant and brilliant description. Some ladies we may 
have seen — we who wear stars and cordons, and attend the St. 
James's assemblies, or we, who, in muddy boots, dawdle up and 
down Pall Mall, and peep into the coaches as they drive up with the 
great folks in their feathers — some ladies of fashion, I say, we may 
have seen, about two o'clock of the forenoon of a levee day, as the 



. THE VERY BEST OF COMPANY. 529 

laced-jacketed band of Life Guards are blowing triumphal marches 
seated on those prancing music-stools, their cream-colored chargers 
— who are by no means lovely and enticing objects at that early 
period of noon. A stout countess of sixty, decolletee., painted,' 
wrinkled with rouge up to her drooping eyelids, and diamonds 
twinkling in her wig, is a wholesome and edifying, but not a 
pleasant sight. She has the faded look of a St. James's Street 
illumination, as it may be seen of an early morning, when half the 
lamps are out, and the others are blinking wanly, as if they were 
about to vanish like ghosts before the dawn. Such charms as 
those of which we catch glimpses while her ladyship's carriage 
passes should appear abroad at night alone. If even Cynthia looks 
haggard of an afternoon, as we may see her sometimes in the pres- 
ent winter season, with Phoebus staring her out of countenance 
from the opposite side of the heavens, how much more can old 
Lady Castlemouldy keep her head up when the sun is shining full 
upon it through the chariot windows, and showing all the chinks 
and crannies with which time has marked her face ! No. 
Drawing-rooms should be announced for November, or the first 
foggy day ; or the elderly sultanas of our Vanity Fair should drive 
up in closed litters, descend in a covered way, and make their 
courtesy to the sovereign under the protection of lamp-light. 

Our beloved Rebecca had no need, however, of any such a friend- 
ly halo to set off her beauty. Her complexion could bear any sun- 
shine as yet ; and her dress, though if you were to see it now, any 
present lady of Vanity Fair would pronounce it to be the most 
foolish and preposterous attire ever worn, was as handsome in 
her eyes and those of the public, some five and twenty years since, 
as the most brilliant costume of the most famous beauty of the pres- 
ent season. A score of years hence that too, that milliner's wonder, 
will have passed into the domain of the absurd, along with all pre- 
vious vanities. But we are wandering too much. Mrs. Rawdon's 
dress was pronounced to be charmante on the eventful day of her 
presentation. Even good little Lady Jane was forced to acknowl- 
edge this effect, as she looked at her kinswoman ; and owned sorrow- 
fully to herself that she was quite inferior in taste to Mrs. Becky. 

She did not know how much care, thought, and genius Mrs. 
Rawdon had bestowed upon that garment. Rebecca had as good 
taste as any milliner in Europe, and such a clever way of doing 
things as Lady Jane little understood. The latter quickly spied 
out the magnificence of the brocade of Becky's train, and the 
splendor of the lace on her dress. 

The brocade was an old remnant, Becky said ; and as for the 
lace, it was a great bargain. She had had it these hundred years. 

" My dear Mrs. Crawley, it must have cost a little fortune," 



530 VANITY FAIR. 

Lady Jane said, looking down at her own lace, which was not 
nearly so good ; and then examining the quality of the ancient bro- 
cade which formed the material of Mrs. Rawdon's court dress, she 
felt inclined to say that she could not afford such fine clothing, but 
checked that speech, with an effort, as one uncharitable to her 
kinswoman. 

And yet, if Lady Jane had known all, I think even her kindly 
temper would have failed her. The fact is, when she was putting 
Sir Pitt's house in order, Mrs. Rawdon had found the lace and the 
brocade in old wardrobes, the property of the former ladies of the 
house, and had quietly carried the goods home, and had suit- 
ed them to her own little person. Briggs saw her take them, 
asked no questions, told no stories ; but I believe quite sympa- 
thized with her on this matter, and so would many another honest 
woman. 

And the diamonds — " Where the doose did you get the dia- 
monds, Becky .'* " said her husband, admiring some jewels which 
he had never seen before, and which sparkled in her ears and on 
her neck with brilliance and profusion. 

Becky blushed a little, and looked at him hard for a moment. 
Pitt Crawley blushed a little too, and looked out of the window. 
The fact is, he had given her a very small portion of the brilliants ; 
a pretty diamond clasp, which confined a pearl necklace, which 
she wore ; and the baronet had omitted to mention the circum- 
stance to his lady. 

Becky looked at her husband, and then at Sir Pitt, with an air of 
saucy triumph — as much as to say, " Shall I betray you ? " 

" Guess ! " she said to her husband. " Why 3^ou silly man," she 
continued, " w-here do you suppose I got them ? — all except the lit- 
tle clasp, which a dear friend of mine gave me long ago. I hired 
them to be sure. I hired them at Mr. Polonius's, in Coventry 
Street. You don't suppose that all the diamonds which go to 
court belong to the owners ; like those beautiful stones which Lady 
Jane has, and which are much handsomer than any which I have, I 
am certain." 

" They are family jewels," said Sir Pitt, again looking uneasy. 
And in this family conversation the carriage rolled down the street, 
until its cargo was finally discharged at the gates of the palace 
where the sovereign was sitting in state. 

The diamonds, which had created Rawdon's admiration, never 
went back to Mr. Polonius, of Coventry Street, and that gentle- 
man never applied for their restoration , but they retired into a 
little private repository, in an old desk, which Amelia Sedley had 
given her years and years ago, and in which Becky kept a number 
of useful and. perhaps, valuable things, about which her husband 



THE VERY BEST OF COMPANY, 531 

knew nothing. To know nothing, or Httle, is in the nature of some 
husbands. To hide, is the nature of how many women ? O 
ladies ! how many of you have surreptitious milliners' bills .'' How 
many of you have gowns and bracelets which you daren't show, or 
which you wear trembling? — trembling, and coaxing with smiles 
the husband by your side, who does not know the new velvet 
gown from the old one, or the new bracelet from last year's, or has 
any notion that the ragged-looking yellow lace scarf cost forty 
guineas, and that Madame Bobinot is writing dunning letters every 
week for the money ! 

Thus Rawdon knew nothing about the brilliant diamond ear- 
rings, or the superb brilliant ornament which decorated the fair 
bosom of his lady ; but Lord Steyne, who was in his place at court, 
as lord of the powder closet, and one of the great dignitaries and 
illustrious defences of the throne of England, and came up with all 
his stars, garters, collars, and cordons, and paid particular atten- 
tion to the little woman, knew whence the jewels came, and who 
paid for them. 

As he bowed over her he smiled, and quoted the hackneyed 
and beautiful lines, from the " Rape of the Lock," about Belinda's 
diamonds, " which Jews might kiss and infidels adore." 

" But I hope your lordship is orthodox," said the little lady, 
with a toss of her head. And many ladies round about whispered 
and talked, and many gentlemen nodded and whispered, as they 
saw what marked attention the great nobleman was paying to the 
little adventuress. 

What were the circumstances of the interview between Rebecca 
Crawley, nee Sharp, and her imperial master, it does not become 
such a feeble and inexperienced pen as mine to attempt to relate. 
The dazzled eyes close before that magnificent idea. Loyal re- 
spect and decency tell even the imagination not to look too keenly 
and audaciously about the sacred audience-chamber, but to back 
away rapidly, silently and respectfully, making profound bows out 
of the august presence. 

This may be said, that in all London there was no more loyal 
heart than Becky's after this interview. The name of her king 
was always on her lips, and he was proclaimed by her to be the 
most charming of men. She went to Colnaghi's and ordered the 
finest portrait of him that art had produced, and credit could sup- 
ply. She chose that famous one in which the best of monarchs is 
represented in a frock-coat with a fur collar, and breeches and 
silk stockings, simpering on a sofa from under his curly brown wig. 
She had him painted in a brooch and wore it — indeed she amused 
and somewhat pestered her acquaintances with her perpetual talk 
about his urbanity and beauty. Who knows ? Perhaps the little 



532 VANITY FAIR. 

woman thought she might play the part of a Maintenon or a Pom- 
padour. 

But the finest sport of all after her presentation was to hear hei 
talk virtuously. She had a few female acquaintances, not, it must 
be owned, of the very highest reputation in Vanity Fair. But be- 
ing made an honest woman of, so to speak, Becky would not con- 
sort any longer with these dubious ones, and cut Lady Cracken- 
bury when the latter nodded to her from her opera-box ; and gave 
Mrs. Washington White the go-by in the ring. '' One must, my 
dear, show one is somebody," she said. *' One mustnk be seen 
with doubtful people. I pity Lady Crackenbury from my heart; 
and Mrs. Washington White may be a very good-natured person. 
You may go and dine with them, as you like your rubber. But 1 
mustn't, and won't ; and you will have the goodness to tell Smith 
to say I am not at home when either of them calls." 

The particulars of Becky's costume were in the newspapers — 
feathers, lappets, superb diamonds, and all the rest. Lady Crack- 
enbury read the paragraph in bitterness of spirit, and discoursed 
to her followers about the airs which that woman was giving her- 
self. Mrs. Bute Crawley and her young ladies in the country had 
a copy of the Morning Post from town ; and gave a vent to their 
honest indignation. " If you had been sandy-haired, green-eyed, 
and a French rope-dancer's daughter," Mrs. Bute said to her eldest 
girl (who on the contrary was a very swarthy, short, and snub-nosed 
young lady), " you might have had superb diamonds, forsooth, and 
have been presented at court by your cousin, the Lady Jane. But 
you're only a gentlewoman, my poor dear child. You have only 
some of the best blood in England in your veins, and good princi- 
ples and piety for your portion. I, myself, the wife of a baronet's 
younger brother, too, never thought of such a thing as going to 
court — nor would other people if good Queen Charlotte had been 
alive." In this way the worthy rectoress consoled herself; and 
her daughters sighed^ and sat over the Peerage all night. 

A few days after the famous presentation, another great and 
exceeding honor was vouchsafed to the virtuous Becky. Lady 
Steyne's carriage drove up to Mr. Rawdon Crawley's door, and the 
footman, instead of driving down the front of the house, as by his 
tremendous knocking he appeared to be inclined to do, relented, 
and only delivered in a couple of cards, on which were engraven 
the names of the Marchioness of Steyne and the Countess of Gaunt. 
If these bits of pasteboard had been beautiful pictures, or had had 
a hundred yards of Malines lace rolled round them, worth twice 
the number of guineas, Becky could not have regarded them with 
more pleasure. You may be sure they occupied a conspicuous 



THE VERY BEST OF COMPANY. 533 

place in the china bowl on the drawing-room table, where Becky 
kept the cards of her visitors. Lord ! lord ! how poor Mrs. Wash- 
ington White's card and Lady Crackenbur}^'s card, which our little 
friend had been glad enough to get a few months back, and of 
which the silly little creature was rather proud once — Lord ! lord ! 
I say, how^ soon at the appearance of these grand court cards, did 
those poor little neglected deuces sink down to the bottom of the 
pack. Steyne ! Bareacres, Johnes of Helvellyn ! and Caerlyon of 
Camelot ! we may be sure that Becky and Briggs looked out those 
august names in the Peerage, and followed the noble races up 
through all the ramifications of the family tree. 

My Lord Steyne coming to call a couple of hours afterward, and 
looking about him, and observing everything as was his wont, 
found his ladies' cards already ranged as the trumps of Becky's 
hand, and grinned, as this old cynic always did at any naive dis- 
play of human weakness. Becky came down to him presently; 
whenever the dear girl expected his lordship, her toilet was pre- 
pared, her hair in perfect order, her mouchoirs, aprons, scarfs, little 
morocco slippers, and other female gimcracks arranged, and she 
seated in some artless and agreeable posture ready to receive him 
— whenever she was surprised, of course she had to fly to her 
apartment to take a rapid survey of matters in the glass, and to 
trip down again to w^ait upon the great peer. 

She found him grinning over the bowl. She was discovered, 
and she blushed a little. " Thank you, monseigneur," she said. 
" You see your ladies have been here. How^ good of you ! I 
couldn't come before — I was in the kitchen making a pudding.'" 

" I know you were, I saw you through the area-railings as I drove 
up," replied the old gentleman. 

"You see ever}^thing," she replied. 

"A few things, but not that, my pretty lady," he said good- 
naturedly. " You silly little fibster ! I heard you in the room 
overhead, where I have no doubt you were putting a little rouge 
on ; you must give some of yours to my Lady Gaunt, whose com- 
plexion is quite preposterous ; and I heard the bedroom door open, 
and then you came down stairs." 

" Is it a crime to try and look my best when you come here ? ' 
answered Mrs. Rawdon, plaintively, and she rubbed her cheek with 
her handkerchief as if to show there was no rouge at all, only gen- 
uine blushes and modesty in her case. About this who can tell ? I 
know there is some rouge that won't come off on a pocket-hand- 
kerchief ; and some so good that even tears will not disturb it. 

" Well," said the old gentleman, twiddling round his wife's card, 
•"you are bent on becoming a fine lady. You pester my poor old 



534 



VANITY FAIR 



life out to get you into the world. You won't be able to hold your 
own there, you silly little fool. You've got no money." 

" You will get us 
a place," interposed 
Becky, " as quick as 
possible." 

" You've got no 
money, and you 
want to compete 
with those who have. 
You poor little 
earthenware pipkin, 
you want to swim 
down the stream 
along with the great 
copper kettles. All 
women are alike. 
Everybody is striv- 
ing for what is not 
worth the having. 
Gad 1 I dined with 
the king yesterday, 
and we had neck of 
mutton and turnips. 
A dinner of herbs is 
better than a stalled 
ox very often. You 
will go to Gaunt 
House. You give 
an old fellow no 
rest until you get there. It's not half so nice as here. You'll be 
bored there. I am. My wife is as gay as Lady Macbeth, and my 
daughters as cheerful as Regan and Goneril. I daren't sleep in 
what they call my bedroom. The bed is like the baldaquin of St. 
Peter's, and the pictures frighten me. I have a little brass bed in 
a dressing-room ; and a little hair mattress like an anchorite. I 
am an anchor. Ho ! ho ! You'll be asked to dinner next week. 
And gare aux feinmes^ look out and hold your own ! How the 
women will bully 3'ou ! " This was a very long speech for a man 
of few words like my Lord Steyne ; nor was it the first which he 
uttered for Becky's benefit on that day. 

Briggs looked up from the work-table at which she w^as seated in 
the further room, and gave a deep sigh as she heard the great 
marquis speak so lightly of her sex. 

*' If you don't turn off that abominable sheep-dog," said Lord 




THE VERY BEST OF COMPANY. 535 

Steyne, with a savage look over his shoulder at her, " I will have 
her poisoned." 

" I always give my dog dinner from my own plate," said Rebecca, 
laughing mischievously ; and having enjoyed for some time the 
discomfiture of my lord, who hated poor Briggs for interrupting his 
tete-a-tete with the fair colonel's wife, Mrs. Rawdon at length had 
pity upon her admirer, and calling to Briggs, praised the fineness 
of the weather to her, and bade her to take out the child for a 
walk. 

" I can't send her away," Becky said presently, after a pause, and 
in a very sad voice. Her eyes filled with tears as she spoke, and 
she turned away her head. 

" You owe her her wages, I suppose ? " said the peer. 

" Worse than that," said Becky, still casting down her eyes \ " I 
have ruined her." 

" Ruined her ? — then why don't you turn her out .'* " the gentle- 
man asked. 

" Men do that," Becky answered bitterly. " Women are not so 
bad as you. Last year when we were reduced to our last guinea, 
she gave us everything. She shall never leave me, until we are 
ruined utterly ourselves, which does not seem far off, or until I can 
pay her the utmost farthing." 

" it, how^ much is it ? " said the peer, with an oath. And 

Becky, reflecting on the largeness of his means, mentioned not only 
the sum which she had borrowed from Miss Briggs, but one of 
nearly double the amount. 

This caused the Lord Steyne to break out in another brief and 
energetic expression of anger, at which Rebecca held down her head 
the more, and cried bitterly. " I could not help it. It was my 
only chance. I dare not tell my husband. He would kill me if I 
told him what I have done. I have kept it a secret from everybody 
but you — and you forced it from me. Ah, what shall I do, Lord 
Steyne ? for I am very, very unhappy ! " 

Lord Steyne made no reply except by beating the devil's tattoo, 
and biting his nails. At last he clapped his hat on his head, and 
flung out of the room. Rebecca did not rise from her attitude of 
misery until the door slammed upon him and his carriage whirled 
away. Then she rose up \vith the queerest expression of virtuous 
mischief glittering in her green eyes. She burst out laughing once 
or twice to herself, as she sat at work ; and sitting down to the 
piano, she rattled away a triumphant voluntary on the keys, which 
made the people pause under her window to listen to her brilliant 
music. 

That night there came two notes from Gaunt House for the little 
woman, the one containing a card of invitation from Lord and Lady 



THE VERY BEST OF COMPANY. 537 

Steyne to a dinner at Gaunt House next Friday ; while the other 
inclosed a slip of gray paper bearing Lord Steyne's signature and 
the address of Messrs. Jones, Brown, and Robinson, Lombard 
Street. 

Rawdon heard Becky laughing in the night once or twice. It 
was only her delight at going to Gaunt House and facing the ladies 
there, she said, which amused her so. But the truth was that she 
was occupied with a great number of other thoughts. Should she 
pay off old Briggs and give her her congk ? Should she astonish 
Raggles by settling his account ? She turned over all these thoughts 
on her pillow, and on the next day, when Rawdon went out to pay 
his morning visit to the club, Mrs. Crawley (in a modest dress with 
a veil on) whipped off in a hackney-coach to the city ; and being 
landed at Messrs. Jones and Robinson's bank, presented a docu- 
ment there to the authority at the desk, who, in reply, asked her 
" How she would take it ? " 

She gently said " she would take a hundred and fifty pounds in 
small notes and the remainder in one note ; " and passing through 
St. Paul's Churchyard stopped there and bought the handsomest 
black silk gown for Briggs which money could buy ; and which, 
with a kiss and the kindest speeches, she presented to the simple 
old spinster. 

Then she walked to Mr. Raggles, inquired about his children 
affectionately, and gave him fifty pounds on account. Then she 
went to the livery-man from whom she jobbed her carriages and 
gratified him with a similar sum. " And I hope this will be a lesson 
to you. Spavin," she said, " and that on the next drawing-room day 
my brother. Sir Pitt, will not be inconvenienced by being obliged 
to take four of us in his carriage to wait upon his majesty, because 
my own carriage is not forthcoming." It appears there had been a 
difference on the last drawing-room day. Hence the degradation 
which the colonel had almost suffered, of being obliged to enter the 
presence of his sovereign in a hack cab. 

These arrangements concluded, Becky paid a visit up stairs to 
the before-mentioned desk, which Amelia Sedley had given her 
years ago, and which contained a number of useful and' valuable 
little things ; in which private museum she placed the one note 
which Messrs, Jones and Robinson's cashier had given her. 



538 



VANITY FAIR. 



CHAPTER XLIX. 



IN WHICH WE ENJOY THREE COURSES AND A DESSERT. 

HEN the Ladies of Gaunt 
House were at breakfast that 
morning, Lord Steyne (who 
took his chocolate in private, 
and seldom disturbed the 
females of his household, or 
saw them except upon public 
da3's, or when they crossed 
each other in the hall, or when 
from his pit-box at the opera 
he surveyed them in their box 
on the grand tier) — his lord- 
ship, we say, appeared among 
the ladies and the children 
who were assembled over the 
tea and toast, and a battle 
royal ensued apropos of 
Rebecca. 

" My Lady Steyne," he said, 
" I want to see the list for 
your dinner on Friday ; and I 
want you, if you please, to 

write a card for Colonel and Mrs. Crawley/' 

" Blanche writes them," Lady Steyne said in a flutter. " Lady 

Gaunt writes them." 

" I will not write to that person," Lady Gaunt said, a tall and 

stately lady, who looked up for an instant and then down again 

after she had spoken. It was not good to meet Lord Steyne's 

eyes for those wno had offended him. 

" Send the cliildren out of the room. Go ! " said he, pulling at 

the bell-rope. The urchins, always frightened before him, retired : 

their mother would have followed too. " Not you," he said. 

" You stop." 

" My Lady Steyne," he said, " once more, will you have tb« 

goodness to go to the desk, and write that card for your dinner o'> 

Fridav ? " 




THREE COURSES AND A DESSERT. 539 

" My lord, I will not be present at it," Lady Gaunt said ; " I will 
go home." 

" I wish you would, and stay there. You will find the bailiffs at 
Bareacres very pleasant company, and I shall be freed from lend- 
ing money to your relations, and from your own damned tragedy 
airs. Who are you to give orders here ? You have no money. 
You've got no brains. You were here to have children, and you 
have not had any. Gaunt's tired of you ; and George's wife is the 
only person in the family who doesn't wish you were dead. Gaunt 
would marry again if you were." 

" I wish I were," her ladyship answered, with tears and rage in 
her eyes. 

" You, forsooth, must give yourself airs of virtue ; while my wife, 
who is an immaculate saint, as everybody knows, and never did 
wrong in her life, has no objection to meet my young friend Mrs. 
Crawley. My Lady Steyne knows that appearances are sometimes 
against the best of women ; that lies are often told about the most 
innocent of them. Pray, madam, shall I tell you some little anec- 
dotes about my Lady Bareacres, your mamma 1 " 

" You may strike me if you like, sir, or hit any cruel blow," Lady 
Gaunt said. To see his wife and daughter suffering always put 
his lordship into a good humor. 

"My sweet Blanche," he said, " I am a gentleman, and never 
lay my hand upon a woman, save in the way of kindness. I only 
wish to correct little faults in your character. You women, are 
too proud, and sadly lack humility, as Father Mole, I'm sure, 
would tell my Lady Steyne if he were here. You mustn't give 
yourselves airs ; you must be meek and humble, my blessings. For 
all Lady Steyne knows, this calumniated, simple, good-humored 
Mrs. Crawley is quite innocent — even more innocent than herself. 
Her husband's character is not good, but it is as good as Bareacres', 
who has played a little and not paid a great deal, who cheated you 
out of the only legacy you ever had, and left you a pauper on my 
hands. And Mrs. Crawley is not very well born ; but she is not 
worse than Fanny's illustrious ancestor, the first de la Jones." 

" The money which I brought into the family, sir," Lady George 
cried out — 

" You purchased a contingent reversion with it," the marquis 
said, darkly. " If Gaunt dies, your husband may come to his honors ; 
your little boys may inherit them, and who knows what besides ? 
In the mean while, ladies, be as proud and virtuous as you like 
abroad, but don't give me any airs. As for Mrs. Crawley's 
character, I shan't demean myself or that most spotless and per- 
fectly irreproachable lady, by even hinting that it requires a defense. 
You will be pleased to receive her with the utmost cordiality, as 



540 VANITY FAIR, 

you will receive all persons whom I present in this house. This 
house ? " He broke out with a laugh. " Who is the master of it } and 
what is it ? This Temple of Virtue belongs to me. And if I invite 
all Newgate or all Bedlam here, by they shall be welcome." 

After this vigorous allocution, to one of which sort Lord Steyne 
treated his " hareem " whenever symptoms of insubordination 
appeared in his household, the crestfallen women had nothing for 
it but to obey. Lady Gaunt wrote the invitation which his lord- 
ship required, and she and her mother-in-law drove in person, and 
with bitter and humiliated hearts, to leave the cards on Mrs. Raw- 
don, the reception of which caused that innocent woman so much 
pleasure. 

There were families in London who would have sacrificed a 
year's income to receive such an honor at the hands of those ladies-. 
Mrs. Frederick Bullock, for instance, would have gone on her knees 
from May Fair to Lombard Street, if Lady Steyne and Lady Gaunt 
had been waiting in the city to raise her up, and say, " Come to us 
next Friday " — not to one of the great crushes and grand balls of 
Gaunt House, whither everybody went, but to the sacred, unap- 
proachable, mysterious, delicious, entertainments, to be admitted to 
one of which was a privilege, and an honor, and a blessing indeed. 

Severe, spotless, and beautiful. Lady Gaunt held the ver}- 
highest rank in Vanity Fair. The distinguished courtesy wdth 
which Lord Steyne treated her charmed everybody who witnessed 
his behavior, caused the severest critics to admit how perfect a 
gentleman he was, and to own that his lordship's heart at least was 
in the right place. 

The ladies of Gaunt House called Lady Bareacres in to their 
aid, in order to repulse the common enemy. One of Lady Gaunt's 
carriages went to Hill Street for her ladyship's mother, all whose 
equipages were in the hands of the bailiffs, whose very jewels and 
wardrobe, it was said, had been seized by those inexorable Israel- 
ites. Bareacres Castle was theirs, too, with all its costly pictures, 
furniture, and articles of vertu — the magnificent Vandykes ; the 
noble Reynolds pictures ; the Lawrence portraits, tawdry^ and 
beautiful, and thirty^ years ago deemed as precious as works of real 
genius ; the matchless Dancing Nymph of Canova, for which Lady 
Bareacres had sat in her youth — Lady Bareacres splendid then, and 
radiant in wealth, rank, and beauty — a toothless, bald, old woman 
now — a mere rag of a former robe of state. Her lord, painted at 
the same time by LawTence, as waving his sabre in front of Bare- 
acres Castle, and clothed in his uniform as Colonel of the Thistle- 
wood Yeomanry, was a withered, old, lean man in a great coat and 
a Brutus wig ; slinking about Gray's Inn of mornings chiefly, and 



I 



THREE COURSES AND A DESSERT. 541 

cTining alone at clubs. He did not like to dine with Steyne now. 
They had run races of pleasure together in youth when Bareacres 
was the winner. But Steyne had more bottom than he, and had 
lasted him out. The marquis was ten times a greater man now 
than the young Lord Gaunt of '85 ; and Bareacres nowhere in the 
race — old, beaten, bankrupt, and broken down. He had borrowed 
too much money of Steyne to find it pleasant to meet his old 
comrade often. The latter, whenever he wished to be merry, used 
jeeringly to ask Lady Gaunt why her father had not come to see 
her ? " He has not been here for four months," Lord Steyne would 
say. " I can always tell by my check-book afterward, when I get 
a visit from Bareacres. What a comfort it is, my ladies, I bank 
with one of my sons' fathers-in-law, and the other banks with me." 

Of the other illustrious persons whom Becky had the honor to 
encounter on this her first presentation to the grand world, it does 
not become the present historian to say much. There was his 
Excellency the Prince of Peterwarad in, with his princess ; ano- 
bleman tightly girthed, with a large military chest, on which the 
plaque of his order shone magnificently, and wearing the red collar 
of the Golden Fleece round his neck. He was the owner of count- 
less flocks. " Look at his face. I think he must be descended 
from a sheep," Becky whispered to Lord Steyne. Indeed, his 
excellency's countenance, long, solemn, and white, with the orna- 
ment round his neck, bore some resemblance to that of a venera- 
ble bell-wether. 

1 here was Mr. John Paul Jefferson Jones, titulary attached to 
the American embassy, and correspondent of the Nqw York Dema- 
gogue, who, by the way of making himself agreeable to the com- 
pany, asked Lady Steyne, during a pause in the conversation at 
dinner, how this dear friend, George Gaunt, liked the Brazils ? — 
He and George had been most intimate at Naples, and had gone 
up Vesuvius together. Mr. Jones wrote a full and particular account 
of the dinner, which appeared duly in the Demagogue. He men- 
tioned the names and titles of all the guests, giving biographical 
sketches of the principal people. He described the persons of the 
ladies with great eloquence ; the service of the table ; the size and 
costume of the servants ; enumerated the dishes and wines served ; 
the ornaments of the sideboard, and the probable value of the 
plate. Such a dinner he calculated could not be dished up undei 
fifteen or eighteen dollars per head. And he was in the habit, 
until very latel3^ of sending over proteges, with letters of recom- 
mendation to the present Marquis of Steyne, encouraged to do so 
by the intimate terms on which he had lived with his dear friend, 
the late lord. He was most indignant that a young and insignifi- 
cant aristocrat, the Earl of Southdown, should have taken the /^,J 



542 VAiVITY FAIR, 

of him in their procession to the dining-room. " Just as I was 
stepping up to offer my hand to a very pleasing and witty fashion- 
able, the brilliant and exclusive Mrs. Rawdon Crawley " — he wrote 
— " the young patrician interposed between me and the lady, and 
whisked my Helen off without a word of apology. I was fain to 
bring up the rear with the colonel, the lady's husband, a stout red- 
faced warrior who distinguished himself at Waterloo, where he had 
better luck than befell some of his brother red-coats at New 
Orleans." 

The colonel's countenance, on coming into this polite society, 
wore as many blushes as the face of a boy of sixteen assumes 
when he is confronted with his sisters' schoolfellows. It has been 
told before that honest Rawdon had not been much used at any 
period of his life to ladies' company. With the men at the club or 
the mess-room, he was well enough ; and could ride, bet, smoke, or 
play at billiards with the boldest of them. He had had his time 
for female friendships too ; but that was twent}^ years ago, and the 
ladies were out of the rank of those with whom Young Marlow in 
the comedy is represented as having been familiar before he 
became abashed in the presence of Miss Hardcastle. The times 
are such that one scarcely dares to allude to that kind of company 
which thousands of our young men in Vanity Fair are frequenting 
every day, w^hich nightly fills casinos and dancing-rooms, which is 
known to exist as well as the Ring in Hyde Park or the congregation 
at St. James's — but which the most squeamish if not the most moral 
of societies is determined to ignore. In a word, although Colonel 
Crawley was now five and forty years of age, it had not been his 
lot in life to meet with a half-dozen good w^omen, besides his para- 
gon of a wife. All except her and his kind sister Lady Jane, 
whose gentle nature had tamed and won him, scared the worthy 
colonel ; and on occasion of his first dinner at Gaunt House he 
was not heard to make a single remark except to state that the 
weather was very hot. Indeed Becky would have left him at 
home, but that virtue ordained that her husband should be by her 
side to protect the timid and fluttering little creature on her first 
appearance in polite society. 

On her first appearance Lord Steyne stepped for\vard, taking her 
hand, and greeting her with great courtesy, and presenting her to 
Lady Steyne and their ladyships, her daughters. Their ladyships 
made three stately courtesies, and the elder lady to be sure gave 
her hand to the new comer, but it was as cold and Iffeless as mar- 
ble. 

Becky took it, however, with great humility, and, performing a 
reverence which would have done credit to the best dancing-mas- 



THREE COURSES AND A DESSERT. 543 

ter, put herself at Lady Steyne's feet, as it were, by saying that his 
lordship had been her father's earliest friend and patron, and that 
she, Becky, had learned to honor and respect the Steyne family 
from the days of her childhood. The fact is, that lord Steyne had 
once purchased a couple of pictures of the late Sharp, and the 
affectionate orphan could never forget her gratitude for that favor. 

The lady Bareacres then came under Becky's cognizance, to 
whom the colonel's lady made also a most respectful obeisance. 
It was returned with severe dignity by the exalted person in ques- 
tion. 

" I had the pleasure of making your ladyship's acquaintance at 
Brussels, ten years ago," Becky said, in the most winning manner. 
" I had the good fortune to meet Lady Bareacres at the Duchess of 
Richmond's ball, the night before the battle of Waterloo. And I 
recollect your ladyship, and my Lady Blanche, your daughter, sit- 
ting in the carriage in the porte-cochere at the inn, waiting for 
horses. I hope your ladyship's diamonds are safe." 

Everybody's eyes looked into their neighbor's. The famous 
diamonds had undergone a famous seizure, it appears, about which 
Becky, of course, knew nothing. Rawdon Crawley retreated with 
Lord Southdown into a window, where the latter was heard to laugh 
immoderately, as Rawdon told him the story of Lady Bareacres 
wanting horses, and " knuckling down, by Jove," to Mrs. Craw'ey. 
" I think I needn't be afraid of that woman," Becky thought. 
Indeed, Lady Bareacres exchanged terrified and angry looks with 
her daughter, and retreated to a table where she began to look at 
pictures with great energy. 

When the potentate from the Danube made his appearance, the 
conversation was carried on in the French language, and the Lady 
Bareacres and the younger ladies found, to the further mortification, 
that Mrs. Crawley was much better acquainted with that tongue, 
and spoke it with much better accent, than they. Becky had met 
other Hungarian magnates with the army in France, in 18 16-17. 
She asked after her friends with great interest. The foreign per- 
sonages thought that she was a lady of great distinction ; and the 
prince and the princess asked severally of Lord Steyne and the 
marchioness, whom they conducted to dinner, who was \h.2XpetiU 
dame who spoke so well. 

Finally, the procession being formed in the order described by 
the American diplomatist, they marched into the apartment where 
the banquet was served ; and which, as I have promised the readier 
he shall enjoy it, he shall have the liberty of ordering himself so 
as to suit his fancy. 

But it was when the ladies were alone that Becky knew the tug ^f 
war would come. And then indeed the little woman found herseb «a 



544 



VANITY FAIR. 



such a situation as made her acknowledge the correctness of Lord 
Steyne's caution to her to beware of the society of ladies above 
her own sphere. As they say the persons who hate Irishmen most 
are Irishmen ; so assuredly, the greatest tyrants over women are 




women. When poor little Becky, alone with the ladies, went up to 
the fire-place whither the great ladies had repaired, the great ladies 
marched away and took possession of a table of drawings. When 
Becky followed them to the table of drawings, they dropped off one by 
one to the fire again. She tried to speak to one of the children (of 
whom she was commonly fond in public places), but Master George 
Gaunt was called away by his mamma ; and the stranger was treated 






i 



THREE COURSES AND A DESSERT 545 

with such cruelty finally, that even Lady Steyne herself pitied her, 
and went up to speak to the friendless little woman. 

" Lord Steyne," said her ladyship, as her wan cheeks glowed 
with a blush, " says you sing and play very beautifully, Mrs. Craw- 
ley — I wish you would do me the kindness to sing to me." 

" I will do anything that may give pleasure to my Lord Steyne 
or to you," said Rebecca, sincerely grateful, and seating herself at 
the piano, began to sing. 

She sang religious songs from Mozart, which had been early 
favorites of Lady Steyne, and with such sweetness and tenderness 
that the lady, lingering round the piano, sat down by its side, and 
listened until the tears rolled down her eyes. It is true that the 
opposition ladies at the other end of the room kept up a loud and 
ceaseless buzzing and talking ; but the Lady Steyne did not hear 
those rumors. She was a child again — and had wandered back 
through a forty years' wilderness to her convent garden. The 
chapel organ had pealed the same tones, the organist, the sister 
whom she loved best of the community, had taught them to her in 
those early happy days. She was a girl once more, and the brief 
period of her happiness bloomed out again for an hour — she start- 
ed when the jarring doors were flung open, and with a loud laugh 
from Lord Steyne, the men of the party entered full of gayety. 

He saw at a glance what had happened in his absence ; and 
was grateful to his wife for once. He went and spoke to her, and 
called her by her Christian name, so as again to bring blushes to 
her pale face — " My wife says you have been singing like an 
angel," he said to Becky. Now there are angels of two kinds, 
and both sorts, it is said, are charming in their way. 

Whatever the previous portion of the evening had been, the 
rest of that night was a great triumph for Becky. She sang her 
very best, and it was so good that ever}^ one of the men came and 
crowded round the piano. The women, her enemies, were left 
quite alone. And Mr. Paul Jefferson Jones thought he had made 
a conquest of Lady Gaunt by going up to her ladyship, and prais' 
ing her delightful friend's first-rate singing. 



35 



£40 



VANITY FAIR. 



CHAPTER L. 



CONTAINS A VULGAR INCIDENT. 




HE muse, whoever she be, 
who presides over this 
comic history, must now 
descend from the genteel 
heights in which she 
has been soaring, and 
have the goodness to 
drop down upon the 
lowly roof of John Sedley 
at Brompton, and de- 
scribe what events are 
taking place there. Here, 
too, in this humble tene- 
ment, live care, and dis- 
trust, and dismay. Mrs. 
Clapp in the kitchen is 
grumbling in secret to 
her husband about the rent, and urging the good fellow to rebel 
against his old friend and patron and his present lodger. Mrs. 
Sedley has ceased to visit her landlady in the lower regions now, 
and indeed is in a position to patronize Mrs. Clapp no longer. 
How can one be condescending to a lady to whom one owes a 
matter of forty pounds, and who is perpetually throwing out hints 
for the money ? The Iri^h maidservant has not altered in the least 
in her kind and respectful behavior; but Mrs. Sedley fancies that 
she is growing insolent and ungrateful, and, as the guilty thief who 
fears each bush an officer, sees threatening innuendoes and hints 
of capture in all the girl's speeches and answers. Miss Clapp, 
grown quite a young woman now, is declared by the soured old 
lady to be an unbearable and impudent little minx. Why Amelia 
can be so fond of her, or have her in her room so much, or walk 
out with her so constantly, Mrs. Sedley can not conceive. The 
bitterness of poverty has poisoned the life of the once cheerful and 
kindly woman. She is thankless for Amelia's constant and gentle 
bearing toward her ; carps at her for her efforts at kindness or 
service ; rails at her for her silly pride in her child, and her neg- 



A VULGAR INCIDEiVT. 547 

lect of her parents. Georgy's house is not a very lively one since 
uncle Jos's annuity has been withdrawn, and the little family are 
almost upon famine diet. 

Amelia thinks, and thinks, and racks her brain, to find some 
means of increasing the small pittance upon which the household 
is starving. Can she give lessons in anything ? paint card-racks ? 
do fine work ? She finds that women are working hard, and better 
than she can for twopence a day. She buys a couple of bc-gilt 
Bristol boards at the fancy stationer's, and paints her very best 
upon them — a shepherd with a red waistcoat on one, and a pink 
face smiling in the midst of a pencil landscape ; a shepherd- 
ess on the other crossing a little bridge, with a little dog, nicely 
shaded. The man of the Fancy Repository and Brompton Empo- 
rium of Fine Arts (of whom she bought the screens, vainly hoping 
that he would re-purchase them when ornamented by her hand) 
can hardly hide the sneer with which he examines these feeble 
works of art. He looks askance at the lady who waits in the shop, 
and ties up the cards again in their envelope of whity-brown 
paper, and hands them to the poor widow and Miss Clapp, who 
had never seen such beautiful things in her life, and had been 
quite confident that the man must give two guineas at least for 
the screens. They try at other shops in the interior of London, 
with faint, sickening hopes. '' Don't want 'em," says one. " Be 
_off," says another, fiercely. Three and sixpence have been spent 
in vain ; the screens retire to Miss Clapp's bedroom, who persists 
in thinking them lovely. 

She writes out a little card in her neatest hand, and after long 
thought and labor of composition ; in which the public is informed 
that " A lady who has some time at her disposal, wishes to under- 
take the education of some little girls, whom she would instruct in 
English, in French, in geography., in history, and in music — address 
A. O., at Mr. Brown's ; " and she confides the card to the gentle- 
man of the Fine Art Repository, who consents to allow it to lie 
upon the counter, where it grows dingy and fly-blown. Amelia 
passes the door wistfully many a time, in hopes that Mr. Brown 
will have some news to give to her ; but he never beckons her in. 
When she goes to make little purchases, there is no news for her. 
Poor simple lady, tender and weak — how are you to battle with 
the struggling, violent world ? 

She grows daily more care-worn and sad ; fixing upon her child 
alarmed eyes, whereof the little boy can not interpret the expres- 
sion. She starts up of a night and peeps into his room stealthily, 
to see that he is sleeping and not stolen away. She sleeps but 
little now. A constant thought and terror is haunting her. How 
she weeps and prays in the long, silent nights — how she tries to 



548 VAXITY FAIR. 

hide from herself the thought which will return to her, that she 
ought to part with the boy, that she is the only barrier between 
him and prosperity. She can't, she can't. Not now, at least. 
Some other day. O ! it is too hard to think of and to bear. 

A thought comes over her which makes her blush and turn from 
herself — her parents might keep the annuity — the curate would 
marr}- her and give a home to her and the boy. But George's pic- 
ture and dearest memor\^ are there to rebuke her. Shame and 
love say no to the sacrifice. She shrinks from it as from some- 
thing unholy ; and su3h thoughts never found a resting-place in 
that pure and gentle bosom. 

The combat, which we describe in a sentence or two, lasted for 
many weeks in poor Amelia's heart : during which she had no con- 
fidant ; indeed, she could never have one : as she would not allow 
to herself the possibilit}- of yielding : though she was giving way 
daily before the enemy with whom she had to battle. One truth 
after another was marshaling itself silently against her. and keep- 
ing it"s ground. Poverty and misery for all, want and degradation 
for her parents, injustice to the boy — one by one the ourvvorks of 
the little citadel were taken, in which the poor soul passionately 
guarded her only love and treasure. 

At the beginning of the struggle she had written oft a letter of 
tender supplication to her brother at Calcutta, imploring him not 
to withdraw the support which he had granted to their parents, 
and painting in terms of artless pathos their lonely and hapless 
condition. She did not know the truth of the matter. The pay- 
ment of Jos's annuity was still regular : but it was a money-lender 
in the cit}' who was receiving it : old Sedley had sold it for a sum 
of money wherewith to prosecute his bootless schemes. Emmy 
was calculating eagerly the time that would elapse before the letter 
would arrive and be answered. She had written down the date in 
her pocket-book of the day when she dispatched it. To her son's 
guardian, the good major at Madras, she had not communicated 
any of her griefs and perplexities. She had not written to hhn 
since she \\Tote to congratulate him on his approaching marriage. 
She thought with sickening despondency that that friend — the 
only one, the one who had felt such a regard for her — was fallen 
away. 

One day, when things had come to a very bad pass — when the 
creditors were pressing, the mother in hysteric grief, the father in 
more than usual gloom, the inmates of the family avoiding each 
other, each secretly oppressed with his private unhappiness and 
notion of wrong — the father and daughter happened to be left 
alone together : and Amelia thought to comfort her father by tell- 
ing him what she had done. She had written to Joseph — an answer 



A VULGAR IXCIDEXT. 549 

must come in three or four months. He was always generous, 
though careless. He could not refuse, when he knew how 
straitened were the circumstances of his parents. 

Then the old gentleman revealed the whole truth to her — that 
his son was still papng the annuit}", which his own imprudence 
had flung away. He had not dared to tell it sooner. He thought 
Amelia's ghastly and territied look, when, with a trembling, miser- 
able voice he made the confession, conveyed reproaches to him 
for his concealment. " Ah ! " said he, ■«dth quivering lips and 
turning away, " you despise your old father now ! "' 

" O papa ! it is not that," Amelia cried out, falling on his neck 
and kissing him many times. " You are always good and kind. 
You did it for the best. It is not for the money — it is — O my 
God ! my God ! have mercy upon me, and give me strength to 
bear this trial ; " and she kissed him again wildly, and went away. 

Still the father did not know what that explanation meant, and 
the burst of anguish with which the poor girl left him. It was that 
she was conquered. The sentence was passed. The child must 
go from her — to others — to forget her. Her heart and her treas- 
ure — her joy, hope, love, worship — her God, almost I She must 
give him up ; and then — and then she would go to George ; and 
they would watch over the child, and wait for him until he came 
to them in Heaven. 

She put on her bonnet, scarcely knowing what she did, and went 
out to walk in the lanes by which George used to come back from 
school, and where she was in the habit of going on his return to 
meet the boy. It was May, a half-holiday. The leaves were all 
coming out, the weather was brilliant ; the boy came running to 
her, flushed with health, sinsrino^. his bundle of school-books bans:- 
ing by a thong. There he was. Both her arms were round him. 
No, it was impossible. They could not be going to part. '' What 
is the matter, mother t '' said he ; " you look ver}- pale."' 

•• Nothing, my child," she said, and stooped down and kissed 
him. 

That night Amelia made the boy read the storv- ot Samuel to 
her, and how Hannah, his mother, having weaned hmi, brought 
him to Eli, the High Priest to minister before the I^ord. And he 
read the song of gratitude which Haiinah sang : and which says, 
who it is who maketh poor and m&keth rich, and bringeth low and 
exalteth — how the poor shall be raised up out of the dust, and 
how, in his own might, no man shall be strong. Then he read 
how Samuel's mother made him aliule coat, and brought it to him 
from, year to year when she came up to offer the yearly sacrifice. 
And then, in her sweet, simple way, George's mother made com- 
mentaries to the boy upon this affecting stor}-. How Hannah, 



550 VAXITY FAIR. 

though she loved her son so much, yet gave him up because of 
her vow. And how she must always have thought of him as she 
sat at home, far away, making the little coat; and Samuel, she 
was sure, never forgot his mother ; and how happy she must have 
been as the time came (and the years pass away ver}- quick") when 
she would see her boy, and how good and wise he had grown. 
This little sermon she spoke with a gentle, solemn voice and Axy 
eyes, until she came to the account of their meeting — then the 
discourse broke off suddenly, the tender heart overflowed, and 
taking the boy to her breast, she rocked him in her arms, and 
wept silently over him in a sainted agony of tears. 

Her mind being made up, the widow began to take such meas- 
ures as seemed right to her for advancing the end which she 
proposed. One day. Miss Osborne, in Russell Square (Amelia 
had not written the name or number of the house for ten years — 
her youth, her early ston,* came back to her as she wrote the super- 
scription)— one day !Miss Osbome got a letter from Amelia which 
made her blush ver}" much and look toward her father, sitting 
glooming in his place at the other end of the table. 

In simple terms Amelia told her the reasons which had induced 
her to change her mind respecting her boy. Her father had met 
with fresh misfortunes which had entirely ruined him. Her own 
pittance was so small that it would barely enable her to support 
her parents, and would not suffice to give George the advantages 
which were his due. Great as her sufferings would be at parting 
with him, she would, by God's help, endure them for the boy's 
sake. She knew that those to whom he was going would do all 
in their power to make him happy. She described his disposition, 
such as she fancied it ; quick and impatient of control or harsh- 
ness ; easilv to be moved by love and kindness. In a postscript, 
she stipulated that she should have a written agreement, that she 
should see the child as often as she wished — she could not part 
with him under any other terms. 

"What? Mrs. Pride has come down, has she?" old Osbome 
said, when with a tremulous eager voice Miss Osbome read him 
the letter — " Reg'lar stan-ed out, hey ? ha, ha ! I knew she 
would." He tried to keep his dignity and to read his paper as 
usual — but he could not follow it. He chuckled and swore to 
himself behind the sheet. 

At last he flung it down ; and scowling at his daughter as his 
wont was, went out of the room into his study adjoining, from 
whence he presently returned with a key. He flung it to Miss 
Osborne. 

•• Get the room over mine — his room that was — readv," he said. 



A VULGAR INCIDENT. 551 

" Yes, sir," his daughter replied in a tremble. It was George's 
room. It had not been opened for more than ten years. Some of 
his clothes, papers, handkerchiefs, whips, and caps, fishing-rods and 
sporting gear were still there. An army list of 18 14, with his 
name written on the cover ; a little dictionary he was wont to use 
in writing ; and the Bible his mother had given him, were on the 
mantel-piece ; with a pair of spurs, and a dried inkstand covered 
with the dust of ten years. Ah ! since that ink was wet, what 
days and people had passed away ! The writing-book, still on the 
table, was blotted with his hand. 

Miss Osborne was much affected when she first entered this room 
with the servants under her. She sank quite pale on the little 
bed. "This is blessed news, mam — indeed, mam," the house- 
keeper said ; " and the good old times is returning, mam. The 
dear little feller, to be sure, mam ; how happy he will be ! But 
some folks in May Fair, mam, will owe him a grudge, mam ; " and 
she clicked back the bolt which held the window^-sash, and let the 
air into the chamber. 

'•You had better send that woman some money," Mr. Osborne 
said, before he went out. " She shan't want for nothing. Send 
her a hundred pound." 

" And I'll go and see her to-morrow ? " Miss Osborne asked. 

"That's your lookout. She don't come in here, mind. No, 

by , not for all the money in London. But she mustn't want 

now. So look out, and get things right." With which brief 
speeches Mr. Osborne took leave of his daughter, and went on his 
accustomed way into the city. 

" Here, papa, is some money," Amelia said that night, kissing 
the old man, her father, and putting a bill for a hundred pounds 
into his hands. " And — and, mamma, don't be harsh with Georgy. 
He — he is not going to stop with us long." She could say nothing 
more, and walked away silently to her room. Let us close it upon 
her prayers and her sorrows I think we had best speak little 
about so much love and grief. 

Miss Osborne came the next day, according to her promise 
contained in her note, and saw Amelia. The meeting between 
them was friendly. A look and a few words from Miss Osborne 
showed the poor widow that, with regard to this woman at least, 
there need be no fear lest she should take the first place in her son's 
affection. She was cold, sensible, not unkind. The mother had 
not been so well pleased, perhaps, had the rival been better look- 
ing, younger, more affectionate, warmer-hearted. Miss Osborne, 
on the other hand, thought of old times and memories, and could 
not but be touched with the poor mother's pitiful situation. She 
was conquered, and laying down her arms, as it were, she humbly 



552 



VANITY FAIR. 



submitted. That day they arranged together the preliminaries of 
the treaty of capitulation. 

George was 
kept from 
school the next 
day and saw his 
aunt. Amelia 
left them alone 
together, and 
went to her 
room. She was 
trying the sep- 
aration ; as that 
poor gentle 
Lady Jane 
Grey felt the 
edge of the axe 
that was to 
come down and 
sever her slen- 
der life. Days 
were passed in 
parleys, visits, 
preparations. 
The widow 
broke the mat- 
ter to Georgy 
with great cau- 
tion; she looked 
to see him very 
much affected 
by the intelli- 
gence. He was 
rather elated 
than otherwise, 

and the poor woman turned sadly away. He bragged about the 
news that day to the boys at school ; told them how he was going 
to live with his grandpapa, his father's father, not the one who 
comes here sometimes ; and that he would be very rich, and have 
a carriage, and a pony, and go to a much finer school, and when 
he was rich he would buy Leader's pencil case, and pay the tart- 
woman. The boy was the image of his father, as his fond 
mother thought. 

Indeed I have no heart, on account of our dear Amelia's sake, 
to go through the story of George's last days at home. 




A VULGAR INCIDENT. 55.I 

At last the day came, the carriage drove up, the little humble 
packets containing tokens of love and remembrance were ready 
and disposed in the hall long since — George was in his new suit, 
for which the tailor had come previously to measure him. He 
had sprung up with the sun and put on the new clothes ; his 
mother hearing him from the room close b}^, in which she had 
been lying, in speechless grief and watching. Days before she 
had been making preparations for the end ; purchasing little stores 
for the boy's use . marking his books and linen ; talking with him 
and preparing him for the change — fondly fancying that he needed 
preparation. 

So that he had change, what cared he ? He was longing for it. 
By a thousand eager declarations as to what he would do, when he 
went to live with his grandfather, he had shown the poor widow 
how little the idea of parting had cast him down. " He would come 
and see his mamma often on the pony," he said ; " he would come 
and fetch her in the carriage ; they would drive in the park, and 
she should have everything she wanted." Tne poor mother was 
fain to content herself with these selfish demonstrations of attach- 
ment, and tried to convince herself how sincerely her son loved her. 
He must love her. All children were so ; a little anxious for 
novelty, and — no, not selfish, but self-willed. Her child must have 
his enjoyments and ambition in the world. She herself, by her own 
selfishness and imprudent love for him, had denied him his just 
rights and pleasures hitherto. 

I know few things more affecting than that timorous debasement 
and self-humiliation of a woman. How she owns that it is she and 
not the man who is guilty ; how she takes all the faults on her side ; 
how she courts in a manner punishment for the wrongs which she 
has not committed, and persists in shielding the real culprit ! It is 
those who injure women who get the most kindness from them— 
they are born timid and tyrants, and maltreat those who are hum- 
blest before them. 

So poor Amelia had been getting ready in silent misery for her 
son's departure, and had passed many and many a long solitary 
hour in making preparations for the end. George stood by ha 
mother, watching her arrangements without the least concein. 
Tears had fallen into his boxes ; passages had been scored in his 
favorite books ; old toys, relics, treasures had been hoarded away 
for him, and packed with strange neatness and care — and of all 
these things the boy took no note. The child goes away smiling 
as the mother breaks her heart. By heavens, it is pitiful, the boot- 
less love of women for children in Vanity Fair. 

A few days are past ; and the great event of Amelia's' life is 




''X 



ll 




^ii^J^ 



f afTd IT 



H 














A VULGAR INC IDE NT. 555 

consummated. No angel has intervened. The child is sacrificed 
and offered up to fate ; and the widow is quite alone. 

The boy comes to see her often, to be sure. He rides on a pony 
with a coachman behind him, to the delight of his old grandfather, 
Sedley, who walks proudly down the lane by his side. She sees 
him, but he is not her boy any more. Why, he rides to see the 
boys at the little school, too, and to show off before them his new 
wealth and splendor. In two days he has adopted a slightly impe- 
rious air and patronizing manner. He was born to command, his 
mother thinks, as his father ^vas before him. 

It is fine weather now. Of evenings on the days when he does 
not come, she takes a long walk into London — yes, as far as Russell 
Square, and rests on the stone by the railing of the garden opposite 
Mr. Osborne's house. It is so pleasant and cool. She can look 
up and see the drawing-room windows illuminated, and, at about 
nine o' clock, the chamber in the upper story where Georgy sleeps. 
She knows — He has told her. She prays there as the light goes 
out, prays with a humble humble heart, and walks home shrinking 
and silent. She is very tired when she comes home. Perhaps she 
will sleep the better for that long weary walk ; and she may dream 
about Georgy. 

\ One Sunday she happened to be walking in Russell Square, at 
some distance from Mr. Osborne's house (she could see it from a 
distance though), when all the bells of Sabbath were ringing, and 
George and his aunt came out to go to church : a little sweep 
asked for charity, and the footman, who carried the books, tried to 
drive him. away ; but Georgy stopped and gave him money. May 
God's blessing be on the boy ! Emmy ran round the square, and 
coming up to the sweep, gave him her mite too. All the bells of 
Sabbath were ringing, and she followed them until she came to the 
Foundling Church, into which she went. There she sat in a place 
whence she could see the head of the boy under his father's tomb- 
stone. Many hundred fresh children's voices rose up there and 
sang hymns to the Father Beneficent; and little George's soul thrill- 
ed with delight at the burst of glorious psalmody. His mother could 
not see him for awhile, through the mist that dimmed her eyes. 



556 



Vanity fair. 



CHAPTER LI. 

IN WHICH A CHARADE IS ACTED WHICH MAY OR MAY NOT PUZZLE 

THE READER. 



FTER Becky's appearance 
at my Lord Steyne's pri- 
vate and select parties, the 
claims of that estimable 
woman as regards fashion 
were settled ; and some 
of the ver}^ greatest and 
tallest doors in the me- 
tropolis were speedily 
opened to her — doors so 
great and tall that the 
beloved reader and writer 
hereof may hope in vain 
to enter at them. Dear 
brethren, let us tremble 
before those august por- 
tals. I fancy them guard- 
ed by grooms of the 
chamber with flaming sil- 
ver forks, with which they 
prong all those who have 
not the right of the entree. 
They say the honest news- 
paper fellow who sits in the hall, and takes down the names of 
the great ones who are admitted to the feasts, dies after a little 
time. He can't survive the glare of fashion long. It scorches him 
up, as the presence of Jupiter in full dress wasted that poor impru- 
dent Semele — a giddy moth of a creature who ruined herself by 
venturing out of her natural atmosphere. Her myth ought to be 
taken to heart among the Tyburnians, the Belgravians — her story, 
and perhaps Becky's too. Ah, ladies ! — ask the Reverend Mr. 
Thurifer if Belgravia is not a sounding brass, and Tyburnia a tink- 
ling cymbal. These are vanities. Even these will pass away. 
And some day or other (but it will be after our time, thank good- 
ness), Hyde Park Gardens will be no more better known than the 
celebrated horticultural outskirts of Babylon, and Belgrave Square 




A CHARADE IS ACTED, 557 

will be as desolate as Baker Street or Tadmor in the wilder- 
ness. 

Ladies, are you aware that the great Pitt lived in Baker Street ? 
What would not your grandmothers have given to be asked to Lady 
Hester's parties in that now decayed mansion ? I have dined in it 
— moi qui vous park. I peopled the chamber with ghosts of the 
mighty dead. As we sat soberly drinking claret there with men of 
to-day, the spirits of the departed came in and took their places 
round the darksome board. The pilot who weathered the storm 
tossed off great bumpers of spiritual port ; the shade of Dundas 
did not leave the ghost of a heel-tap ; Addington sat bowing and 
smirking in a ghastly manner, and would not be behindhand when 
the noiseless bottle went round ; Scott, from under bushy eyebrows, 
winked at the apparition of a bee's wing ; Wilberforce's eyes went 
up to the ceiling, so that he did not seem to know how his glass 
went up full to his mouth, and came down empty — up to the ceil- 
ing which was above us only yesterday, and which the great of the 
last days have all looked at. They let the house as a furnished 
lodging now. Yes, Lady Hester once lived in Baker Street, and 
lies asleep in the wilderness. Eothensawher there — not in Baker 
Street, but in the other solitude. 

It is all vanity, to be sure ; but who will not own to liking a 
little of it? I should like to know what well-constituted mind, 
merely because it is transitory, dislikes roast beef. That is a van- 
ity ; but may every man who reads this have a wholesome portion 
of it through life, I beg ; ay, though my readers were five hundred 
thousand. Sit down, gentlemen, and fall to, with a good hearty 
appetite ; the fat, the lean, the gravy, the horseradish — as you like 
it — don't spare it. Another glass of wine, Jones, my boy — a little 
bit of the Sunday side. Yes, let us eat our fill of the vain thing, 
and be thankful therefor. And let us make the best of Becky's 
aristocratic pleasures likewise ; foi these, too, like all other mortal 
delights, were but transitory. 

The upshot of her visit to Lord Steyne was, that his highness the 
Prince of Peterwaradin took occasion to renew his acquaintance 
with Colonel Crawley, when they met on the next day at the club, 
and to compliment Mrs. Crawley in the ring of Hyde Park with a 
profound salute of the hat. She and her husband were invited 
immediately to one of the prince's small parties at Levant House, 
then occupied by his highness during the temporary absence from 
England of its noble proprietor. She sang after dinner to a very 
little comite. The Marquis of Steyne was present, paternally 
superintending the progress of his pupil. 

At Levant House Becky met one of the finest gentlemen and 



558 VAAVTY FAIR. 

greatest ministers that Europe has produced— the Due de la 
Jabotiere, then ambassador from the Most Christian King, and 
subsequently minister to that monarch. I declare I swell with 
pride as these august names are transcribed by my pen ; and I 
think in what brilliant company my dear Becky is moving. She 
became a constant guest at the French embassy, where no party 
was considered to be complete without the presence of the 
charming Madame Ravdonn Cravley. 

Messieurs de Truffigny (of the Perigord family) and Champignac, 
both attaches of the embassy, were straightway smitten by the charms 
of the fair colonel's wife ; and both declared, according to the 
wont of their nation (for who ever yet met a Frenchman, come out 
of England, that has not left half a dozen families miserable, and 
brought away as many hearts in his pocketbook ?)— both, I say, de- 
clared that they were aux ??iieux with the charming ]\Iadame Rav- 
donn. 

But I doubt the correctness of the assertion. Champignac was 
ver)' fond of ecarte and made many parties with the colonel of 
evenings, while Becky was singing to Lord Steyne in the other 
room ; and as for Truffigny, it is a well known fact that he dared 
not go to the Travelers', where he owed money to the waiters, and 
if he had not had the embassy as a dining-place, the worthy young 
gentleman must have star\-ed. I doubt, I say, that Becky 
would have selected either of these young men as a person on 
whom she would bestow her special regard. They ran of her mes- 
sages, purchased her gloves and flowers, went in debt for opera- 
boxes for her, and made themselves amiable in a thousand ways. 

And they talked English with adorable simplicity, and to the 
constant amusement of Becky and my Lord Steyne, she would 
mimic one or other to his face, and compliment him on his ad- 
vance in the English language with a gravit}' which never failed to 
tickle the marquis, her sardonic old patron. Truffigny gave Briggs 
a shawl by way of winning over Becky's confidant, and asked her 
to take charge of a letter which the simple spinster handed over 
in public to the person to whom it was addressed ; and the com- 
position of which amused ever}^body who read it greatly. Lord 
Steyne read it ; everybody but honest Rawdon ; to whom it was 
not necessar}- to tell ever}-thing that passed in the little house in 
]\Iay Fair. 

Here, before long, Becky received not only *' the best " foreigners 
(as the phrase is in our noble and admirable society slang), but 
some of the best English people too. I don't mean the most virtuous, 
or indeed the least virtuous, or the cleverest, or the stupidest, or the 
richest, or the best born, but "the best " — in a word, people about 
whom there is no question — such as the great Lady Fitz-Willis, 



A CHARADE IS ACTED. 559 

that patron saint of Almack's,. the great Lady Slowbore, the great 
Lady Grizzel Macbeth ('she was Lady G. Glowr}\ daughter of Lord 
Grey of Glo\vr\- ', and the like. When the Countess of Fitz-Willis 
(her ladyship is of the Kingstreet family, see Debrett and Burke; 
takes up a person, he or she is safe. There is no question about 
them any more. Not that my Lady Fitz-Willis is any better than 
anybody else, being on the contrar}*, a faded person, fift}'-seven 
years of age. and neither handsome, nor wealthy, nor entertaining ; 
but it is agreed on all sides that she is of the ** best people." 
Those who go to her are of the best ; and from an old grudge 
probably to Lady Steyne (for whose coronet her ladyship, then the 
youthful Georgina Frederica, daughter of the Prince of Wales's 
favorite, the Earl of Portansherr\-, had once tried;, this great and 
famous leader of the fashion chose to acknowledge Mrs. Rawdon 
Crawley : made her a most marked courtesy at the assembly 
over which she presided ; and not only encouraged her son, St. 
Kilts This lordship got his place through Lord Steyne's interest), to 
frequent Mrs. Crawley's house, but asked her to her own mansion, 
and spoke to her twice in the most public and condescending 
manner during dinner. The important fact was known all over 
London that night. People who had been cr}-ing fie about Mrs. 
Crawley were silent. \\'enham, the wit and lawyer. Lord Steyne's 
right-hand man, went about ever} where praising her : some who 
had hesitated, came forward at once and welcomed her ; little 
Tom Toady, who had warned Southdown about visiting such an 
abandoned woman, now besought to be introduced to her. In a 
v.ord, she was admitted to be among the " best " people. Ah, my 
beloved readers and brethren, do not envy poor Becky prematurely 
— glorv' like this is said to be fugitive. It is currently reported 
that even in the very inmost circles they are no happier than the 
poor wanderers outside the zone ; and Becky, who penetrated into 
the ver}- center of fashion, and saw the great George IV. face to 
face, has owned since that there too was vanir\'. 

We must be brief in descanting upon this' part of her career. 
As I can not describe the mysteries of freemasonr}-, although I 
have a shrewd idea that it is a humbug ; so an uninitiated man 
can not take upon himself to portray the great world accurately, 
and had best keep his opinions to himself whatever thev are. 

Becky, has often spoken in subsequent years of this season of 
her life, when she moved among the ver}' greatest circles of the 
London fashion. Her success elated, and then bored her. At 
first no occupation was more pleasant than to invent and procure 
(the latter a work of no small trouble and ingenuit}-, by the way, 
in a person of ^Irs. Rawdon Crawley's ver}- narrow means) — to 
procure, we say, the prettiest new dresses and ornaments ; to drive 



560 VAA'ITY FAIR. 

to fine dinner parties, where she was welcomed b}^ great people ; 
and from the fine dinner parties to fine assemblies, whither the 
same people came with whom she had been dining, whom she had 
met the night before, and would see on the morrow — the young 
men faultlessly appointed, handsomely cravated, with the neatest 
glossy boots and white gloves — the elders portly, brass-buttoned, 
noble-looking, polite, and prosy — the young ladies blonde, timid, 
and in pink — the mothers grand, beautiful, sumptuous, solemn, and 
in diamonds. They talked in English, not in bad French, as they 
do in the novels. They talked about each other's houses, and char- 
acters, and families just as the Joneses do about the Smiths. 
Becky's former acquaintances hated and envied her : the poor 
woman herself was yawning in spirit. " I wish I were out of it," 
she said to herself. " I would rather be a parson's wife, and teach 
a Sunday-school than this ; or a sergeant's lady and ride in the 
regimental wagon ; or, oh how much gayer it would be to wear 
spangles and trowsers, and dance before a booth at a fair." 

"You would do it. very well," said Lord Steyne, laughing. She 
used to tell the great man her ejumis and perplexities in her artless 
way — they amused him. 

" Rawdon would make a very good ecuyer — master of the cer- 
emonies — what do you call him — the man in the large boots and 
the uniform who goes round the ring cracking the whip ? He is 
large, heavy, and of a military figure. I recollect," Becky con- 
tinued, pensively, " my father took me to see a show at Brookgreen 
Fair when I was a child ; and when we came home I made myself 
a pair of stilts and danced in the studio to the wonder of all the 
pupils." 

" I should have liked to see it," said Lord Steyne. 

" I should like to do it now," Becky continued. " How Lady 
Blinkey would open her eyes, and Lady Grizzel Macbeth would 
stare ! Hush ! silence ! there is Pasta beginning to sing." Becky 
always made a point of being conspicuously polite to the profes- 
sional ladies and gentlemen who attended at these aristocratic 
parties — of following them into the corners where they sat in 
silence, and shaking hands with them, and smiling in the view of 
all persons. She was an artist herself, as she said very truly ; 
there was a frankness and humility in the manner in which she ac- 
knowledged her origin, which provoked, or disarmed, or amused 
lookers-on, as the case might be. " How cool that woman is," said 
one ; " what airs of independence she assumes, where she ought to 
sit still and be thankful if anybody speaks to her ! " " What an 
honest and good-natured soul she is ! " said another. " What an 
artful little minx ! " said a third. They were all right ver}^ likely ; 
but Becky went her own way, and so fascinated the professionaJ 



A CHARADE IS ACTED. 561 

personages, that they would leave off their sore throats in order to 
sing at her parties, and give her lessons for nothing. 

Yes, she gave parties in the little house in Curzon Street. Many 
scores of carriages with blazing lamps blocked up the street, to the 
disgust of No. 100, who could not rest for the thunder of the knock- 
ing, and of 102, who could not sleep for envy. The gigantic foot- 
men who accompanied the vehicles were too big to be contained in 
Becky's little hall, and were billeted off in the neighboring public- 
houses, whence, when they were wanted, call-boys summoned them 
from their beer. Scores of the great dandies of London squeezed 
and trod on each other on the little stairs, laughing to find them- 
selves there ; and many spotless and severe ladies of ton were seat- 
ed in the little drawing-room, listening to the professional singers, 
who were singing according to their wont, and as if they wished to 
blow the windows down. And the day after there appeared among 
the fashionable reunions in the Morning Fast a paragraph to the fol- 
lowing effect : 

" Yesterday Colonel and Mrs. Crawley entertained a select party 
at dinner at their house in May Fair. Their Excellencies the 
Prince and Princess of Peterwaradin, H. E. Papoosh Pasha, the 
Turkish Ambassador (attended by Kibob Bey, dragoman of the 
mission), the Marquis of Steyne, Earl of Southdown, Sir Pitt and 
Lady Jane Crawley, Mr. Wagg, etc. After dinner Mrs. Crawley 
had an assembb^ which was attended by the Duchess (Dowager) of 
Stilton, Due de la Gruyere, Marchioness of Cheshire, Marchese 
Alessandro Strachino, Comte de Brie, Baron Schapzuger, Chevalier 
Tosti, Countess of Slingstone, and Lady F. Macadam, Major-Gen- 
eral and Lady G. Macbeth, and (2) Miss Macbeths ; Viscount Pad- 
dington. Sir Horace Fogey, Hon. Sands Bedwin, Bobbachy Ba- 
hawder," and an etc., which the reader may fill at his pleasure 
through a dozen close lines of small type. 

And in her commerce with the great, our dear friend showed the 
same frankness which distinguished her transactions with the lowly 
in station. On one occasion, when out at a very fine house, Re- 
becca was (perhaps rather ostentatiously) holding conversation in 
the French language with a celebrated tenor singer of that nation, 
while the Lady Grizzel Macbeth looked over her shoulder scowling 
at the pair. 

" How very well you speak French," Lady Grizzel said, who her- 
self spoke the tongue in an Edinburgh accent most remarkable to 
hear. 

" I ought to know it," Becky modestly said, casting down her 
eyes. " 1 taught it in a school, and my mother was a French- 
woman." 

Lady Grizzel was won by her humility, and was mollified toward 
36 



562 VANITY FAIR. 

the little woman. She deplored the fatal leveling tendencies of 
the age, which adnriitted persons of all classes into the society of 
their superiors ; but her ladyship owned that this one at least was 
well behaved and never forgot her place in life. She was a very 
good woman ; good to the poor ; stupid, blameless, unsuspicious. — 
It is not her ladyship's fault that she fancies herself better than 
you and me. The skirts of her ancestors' garments have been 
kissed for centuries 1 it is a thousand years, they say, since the tar- 
tans of the head of the family were embraced by the defunct Dun- 
can's lords and councilors, when the great ancestor of the house 
became King of Scotland. 

Lady Steyne, after the music scene, succumbed befor^ Becky, 
and perhaps was not disinchned to her. The younger ladies of the 
House of Gaunt were also compelled into submission. Once or 
twice they set people at her, but they failed. The brilliant Lady 
Stunnington tried a passage of arms with her, but was routed with 
great slaughter by the intrepid little Becky. When attacked some- 
times, Becky had a knack of adopting a demure iiigenue air, under 
which she was most dangerous. She said the wickedest things with 
the most simple unaffected air when in this mood, and would take 
care artlessly to apologize for her blunders, so that all the world 
should know that she had made them. 

Mr. Wagg, the celebrated wit, and a led captain and trencher- 
man of my Lord Steyne, was caused by the ladies to charge her ; 
and the worthy fellow, leering at his patronesses, and giving them 
a wink, as much as to say, " Now look out for sport " — one evening 
began an assault upon Becky, who was unsuspiciously eating her 
dinner. The little woman, attacked on a sudden, but never with- 
out arms, lighted up In an instant, parried and riposted with a 
home-thrust, which made Wagg's face tingle with shame ; then she 
returned to her soup with the most perfect calm and a quiet smile 
on her face. Wagg's great patron, who gave him dinners and lent 
him a little money sometimes, and whose election, newspaper, and 
other jobs Wagg did, gave the luckless fellow such a savage glance 
with the eyes as almost made him sink under the table and burst 
into tears. He looked piteously at my lord, who never spoke to 
him during dinner, and at the ladies, who disowmed him. At last 
Becky herself took compassion upon him, and tried to engage him 
in talk. He was not asked to dinner again for six weeks ; and 
Fiche, my lord's confidential man, to whom Wagg naturally paid a 
good deal of court, was instructed to tell him that if he ever dared 
to say a rude thing to Mrs. Crawley again, or make her the butt 
of his stupid jokes, milor would put every one of his notes of hand 
into his lawyer's hands, and sell him up without mercy. Wagg 
wept before Fiche, and implored his dear friend to intercede foi 



A CHARADE IS ACTED. 563 

him. He wrote a poem in favor of Mrs. R. C, which appeared in 
the next number of the " Harumscarum Magazine," which he con- 
ducted. He implored her good-will at parties where he met her. 
He cringed and coaxed Rawdon at the club. He was allowed to 
come back to Gaunt house after awhile. Becky was always good 
to him, always amused, never angry. 

His lordship's vizier and chief confidential servant (with a seat 
in parliament and at the dinner table), Mr. Wenham, was much 
more prudent in his behavior and opinions than Mr. Wagg. How- 
ever much he might be disposed to hate all parvenus (Mr. Wenham 
himself was a stanch old true-blue Tory, and his father a small 
coal merchant in the north of England), this aide-de-camp of the 
marquis never showed any sort of hostility to the new favorite ; but 
pursued her with stealthy kindnesses, and a sly and deferential po- 
liteness, which somehow made Becky more uneasy than other peo- 
ple's overt hostilities. 

How the Crawleys got the money which was spent upon the en- 
tertainments with which they treated the polite world was a mys- 
tery which gave rise to some conversation at the time, and proba- 
bly added zest to these little festivities. Some persons averred 
that Sir Pitt Crawley gave his brother a handsome allowance ; if he 
did, Becky's power over the baronet must have been extraordinary 
indeed, and his character greatly changed in his advanced age. 
Other parties hinted that it was Becky's habit to levy contributions 
on all her husband's friends ; going to this one in tears with an ac- 
count that there was an execution in the house ; falling on her 
knees to that one, and declaring that the whole family must go to 
jail or commit suicide unless such and such a bill could be paid. 
Lord Southdown, it was said, had been induced to give man}^ hun- 
dreds through these pathetic representations. Young Feltham, of 
the — th Dragoons (and son of the firm of Tiler and Feltham, hatters 
and army accouterment makers), and whom the Crawley s intro- 
duced into fashionable life, was also cited as one of Becky's vic- 
tims in the pecuniary way. People declared that sTie got money 
from various simply disposed persons, under pretense of getting 
them confidential appointments under government. Who knows 
what stories were or were not told of our dear and innocent friend .<* 
Certain it is, that if she had had all the money which she was said 
to have begged or borrowed or stolen, she might have capitalized 
and been honest for life, whereas — but this is advancing matters. 

The truth is that by economy and good management — by a spar- 
ing use of ready money and by paying scarcely anybody — people 
can manage, for a time at least, to make a great show with very 
little means : and it is our belief that Becky's much-talked-of par- 



564 VANITY FAIR. 

ties, which were not, after all was said, ven^ numerous, cost this 
lady ver}- little more than the wax candles which lighted the walls. 
Stillbrook and Queen's Crawley supplied her with game and fruit 
in abundance. Lord Steyne's cellars were at her disposal, and that 
excellent nobleman's famous cook presided over her little kitchen, 
or sent by my lord's order the rarest delicacies from their own. I 
protest it is quite shameful in the world to abuse a simple creature, 
as people of her time abuse Becky, and I warn the pubhc against 
believing one-tenth of the stories against her. If ever}^ person is 
to be banished from society who runs into debt and can not pay — 
if we are to be peering into ever}-body's private life, speculating 
upon their income, and cutting them if we don't approve of their 
expenditure — why, what a howling wilderness and intolerable 
dwelling Vanity Fair would be ! Every man's hand would be 
against his neighbor in this case, my dear sir, and the benefits of 
civilization would be done away with. We should be quarreling, 
abusing, avoiding one another. Our houses w^ould become caverns ; 
and we should go in rags because we cared for nobody. Rents 
would go down. Parties wouldn't be given any more. All the 
tradesmen of the town would be bankrupt. Wine, wax-lights, 
comestibles, rouge, crinoline petticoats, diamonds, wigs, Louis- 
Quatorze gimcracks, and old china, park hacks, and splendid high- 
stepping carriage horses — all the delights of life, I say — would go 
to the deuce, if p'eople did but act upon their silly principles, and 
avoid those whom they dislike and abuse. Whereas, by a little 
charity and mutual forbearance, things are made to go on pleas- 
antly enough : we may abuse a man as much as we like, and call 
him the greatest rascal unhanged — but do we wish to hang him 
therefore ? No. We shake hands when we meet. If his cook is 
good we forgive him, and go and dine with him ; and we expect he 
will do the same by us. Thus trade flourishes — civilization ad- 
vances ; peace is kept ; new^ dresses are wanted for new assemblies 
ever}^ week ; and the last year's vintage of Lafitte will remunerate 
the honest proprietor who reared it. 

At the time whereof we are writing, though the Great George 
was on the throne and ladies wore gigots and large combs like tor- 
toise-shell shovels in their hair, instead of the simple sleeves and 
lovely wreaths which are actually in fashion, the manners of the 
very polite world w^ere not, I take it, essentially different from 
those of the present day ; and their amusements prett}" similar. To 
us, from the outside, gazing over the policeman's shoulders at the 
bewildering beauties as they pass into court or hall, they may 
seem beings of unearthly splendor, and in the enjoyment of an ex- 
quisite happiness by us unattainable. It is to console some of 
these dissatisfied beings that we are narrating our dear Becky's 



A CHARADE IS ACTED. 565 

Struggles, and triumphs, and disappointments, of all of which, indeed, 
as is the case with all persons of merit, she had her share. 

At this time the amiable amusement of acting the charades had 
come among us from France ; and was considerably in vogue in 
this country, enabling the many ladies among us who had beauty 
to display their charms, and the fewer number who had cleverness 
to exhibit their wit. My Lord Steyne was incited by Becky, who 
perhaps believed herself endowed with both the above qualifica- 
tions, to give an entertainment at Gaunt House which should in- 
clude some of these little dramas — and we must take leave to in- 
troduce the reader to this brilliant remiion, and, with a melancholy 
welcome, too, for it will be among the very last of the fashionable 
entertainments to which it will be our fortune to conduct him. 

A portion of that splendid room, the picture gallery of Gaunt 
House, was arranged as the charade theater. It had been so used 
when George III. was king ; and a picture of the Marquis of Gaunt 
is still extant, with his hair in powder and a pink ribbon, in a 
Roman shape, as it was called, enacting the part of Cato in Mr. 
Addison's tragedy of that name, performed before their royal high- 
nesses the Prince of Wales, the Bishop of Osnaburgh, and Prince 
William Henry, then children like the actor. One or two of the 
old properties were drawn out of the garrets, where they had lain 
ever since, and furbished up anew for the present festivities. 

Young Bedwin Sands, then an elegant dandy and Eastern trav- 
eler, was manager of the revels. An eastern traveler was some- 
body in those days, and the adventurous Bedwin, who had published 
his quarto, and passed some months under the tents in the desert, 
was a personage of no small importance. In his volume there 
were several pictures of Sands in various oriental costumes ; and 
he traveled about with a black attendant of most unprepossessing 
appearance, just like another Brian de Bois Guilbert. Bedwin, his 
costumes, and black man, were hailed at Gaunt House as very val- 
uable acquisitions. 

He led off the first charade. A Turkish officer with an immense 
plume of feathers (the janissaries were supposed to be still in exist- 
ence, and the tarboosh had not as yet displaced the ancient and 
majestic head-dress of the true believers), was seen couched on a 
divan, and making believe to puff at a narghile, in which, however, 
for the sake of the ladies, only a fragrant pastile was allowed to 
smoke. The Turkish dignitary yawns and expresses signs of 
weariness and idleness. He claps his hands and Mesrour the Nu- 
l)ian appears, with bare arms, bangles, yataghans, and every east- 
ern ornament — gaunt, tall, and hideous. He makes a salaam be- 
fore my lord the aga. 

A thrill of terror and delight runs through the assembly. The 



566 FA.V/TV FAIR. 

ladies whisper to one another. The black slave was given to Bed- 
win Sands by an Eg}-ptian pasha in exchange for three dozen of 
maraschino. He has sewn up ever so many odalisques in sacks- 
and tilted them into the Nile. 

" Bid the slave-merchant enter,"' says the Turkish voluptuar}'- 
with a wave of his hand. Mesrour conducts the slave-merchant 
into my lord's presence : he brings a veiled female with him. He 
removes the veil. A thrill of applause bursts through the house. 
It is Mrs. Winkworth (she was a Miss Absolom) with the beautiful 
eyes and hair. She is in a gorgeous oriental costume ; the black 
braided locks are t^vined with innumerable jewels ; her dress is 
covered over with gold piastres. The odious Mahometan expresses 
himself charmed by her beauty. She falls down on her knees,, 
and entreats him to restore her to the mountains where she was 
born, and where her Circassian lover is still deploring the absence 
of his Zuleikah. Xo entreaties \dll move the obdurate Hassan. 
He laughs at the notion of the Circassian bridegroom. Zuleikah 
covers her face with her hands, and drops down in an attitude of 
the most beautiful despair. There seems to be no hope for her, 
when — when the kislar aga appears. 

The kislar aga brings a letter from the sultan. Hassan receives 
and places on his head the dread firman. A ghastly terror seizes 
him, while on the negro's face (it is Mesrour again in another cos- 
tume) appears a ghastly joy. " Mercy ! mercy ! " cries the pasha ; 
while the kislar aga, grinning horribly, pulls out — a bow-string. 
The curtain draws just as he is going to use that a^\-ful weapon. 
Hassan from within bawls out, '• First two syllables " — and 5lrs. 
Rawdon Crawley, who is going to act in the charade, comes for- 
ward and compliments Mrs. Winkworth on the admirable taste 
and beauty of her costume. 

The second part of the charade takes place. It is still an east- 
em scene. Hassan, in another dress, is in an attitude by Zuleikah, 
who is perfectly reconciled to him. The kislar aga has become a 
peaceful black slave. It is sunrise on the desert, and the Turks 
turn their heads east«-ard and bow to the sand. As there are nO' 
dromedaries at hand, the band facetiously plays '* the Camels are 
Coming.-' An enormous Eg}-ptian head figures in the scene. It 
is a musical one — and, to the surprise of the oriental travelers,, 
sings a comic song, composed by Mr. Wagg. The eastern voy- 
agers go off dancing, like Papageno and the Moorish king, in the 
" Magic Flute.'"' " Last two syllables."' roars the head. 

The last act opens. It is a Grecian tent this time. A tall and 
stalwart man reposes on a couch there. Above him hang his helmet 
and shield. There is no need for them now. Ilium is down. Iphi- 
genia is slain. Cassandra is a prisoner in his outer halls. The 



56S VAXITY FAIR. 

king of men (it is Colonel Crawley, who, indeed, has no notion 
about the sack of Ilium or the conquest of Cassandra), the anax 
andron is asleep in his chamber at Argos. A lamp casts the 
broad shadow of the sleeping warrior flickering on the wall — . 
the sword and shield of Troy glitter in its light. The band plays 
the awful music of " Don Juan '' before the statue enters. 

^^gisthus steals in pale and on tip-toe. What is that ghastly face 
looking out balefully after him from behind the arras ? He raises 
his dagger to strike the sleeper, who turns in his bed, and opens his 
broad chest as if for the blow. He can not strike the noble slum- 
bering chieftain. Clytemnestra glides swiftly into the room like 
an apparition — her arms are bare and white — her tawny hair floats 
down her shoulders — her face is deadly pale, and her eyes are 
lighted up with a smile so ghastly that people quake as they look 
at her. 

A tremor ran through the room. *' Good God ! " somebody said, 
" it's Mrs. Rawdon Crawley."' 

Scornfully she snatches the dagger out of ^gisthus's hand, and 
advances to the bed. You see it shining over her head in the glim- 
mer of the lamp, and — and the lamp goes out, with a groan, and 
all is dark. 

The darkness and the scene frightened people. Rebecca per- 
formed her part so well, and with such ghastly truth, that the spec- 
tators were all dumb, until, with a burst, all the lamps of the hall 
blazed out again, when ever}'body began to shout applause. 
'' Brava ! brava ! " old Steyne's strident voice was heard roaring 
over all the rest. " By — , she'd do it, too,'" he said between his 
teeth. The performers were called by the whole house, which 
sounded with cries of " Manager 1 Clytemnestra ! " AGAMEM- 
XOX could not be got to show in his classical tunic, but stood in 
the background with .^gisthus and others of the perfonners of the 
little play. Mr. Bedwin Sands led on Zuleikah and Clytemnestra. 
A great personage insisted on being presented to the charming 
Clytemnestra. '' Heigh ha ? Run him through the body. Marry 
somebody else, hay ? *' was the apposite remark made by his royal 
highness. 

"Mrs. Rawdon Crawley was quite killing in the part," said Lord 
Steyne. Becky laughed : gay, and saucy looking, and swept the 
prettiest little courtesy ever seen. 

Servants brought in salvers covered with numerous cold dainties, 
and the performers disappeared to get ready for the second charade 
tableau. 

The three syllables of this charade were to be depicted in panto* 
mime, and the performance took place in the following wise : 



A CHARADE IS ACTED. 



569 



First Syllable. Colonel Rawdon Crawley, C.B., with a slouched 
hat and a staff, a great-coat, and a lantern borrowed from the 
stables, passed across the stage bawling out, as if warning the 
inhabitants of the hour. In the lower window are seen two bag- 
men playing apparently at the game of cribbage, over which they 
yawn much. To them enters one looking like Boots (the Honor- 
able G. Ringwood), which character the young gentleman per- 




formed to perfection, and divests them of their lower coverings ; 
and presently Chambermaid (the Right Honorable Lord South- 
down) with two candlesticks, and a warming pan. She ascends to 
the upper apartment, and warms the bed. She uses the warming- 
pan as a weapon wherewith she wards off the attention of the bag- 
men. She exits. They put on their night-caps, and pull down the 
blinds. Boots comes out and closes the shutters of the ground- 
floor chamber. You hear him bolting and chaining the door 
within. All the lights go out. The music plays " Dor?)iez, dormez, 



57C VANITY FAIR, 

chers Amours y A voice from behind the curtain says, "First 
syllable." 

Second Syllable. The lamps are lighted up all of a sudden. 
The music plays the old air from John of Paris, *' Ah, quelplaisir 
d'etre en voyage.'^ It is the same scene. Between the first and 
second floors of the house represented, you behold a sign on which 
the Steyne arms are painted. All the bells are ringing all over the 
house. In the lower apartment you see a man with a long slip of 
jDaper presenting it to another, who shakes his fists, threatens and 
vows that it is monstrous. " Ostler bring round my gig," cries 
another at the door. He chucks Chambermaid (the Right Honor- 
able Lord Southdown) under the chin ; she seems to deplore his 
absence, as Calypso did that of that other eminent traveler 
Ulysses. Boots (the Honorable G. Ringwood) passes with a 
wooden box, containing silver flagons, and cries " Pots " with such 
exquisite humor and naturalness that the whole house rings with 
applause, and a bouquet is thrown to him. Crack, crack, crack go 
the whips. Landlord, chambermaid, waiter rush to the door ; but 
just as some distinguished guest is arriving the curtains close, and 
the invisible theatrical manager cries out " Second syllable." 

" I think it must be ' Hotel,' " says Captain Grigg of the Life- 
Guards ; there is a general laugh at the captain's cleverness. He 
is not very far from the mark. 

While the third syllable is in preparation, the band begins a 
nautical medley — " All in the Downs," " Cease, Rude Boreas," 
"Rule Britannia," " In the Bay of Biscay, O!" — some maritime 
event is about to take place. A bell is heard ringing as the cur- 
tain draws aside. " Now, gents, for the shore ! " a voice exclaims. 
People take leave of each other. They point anxiously as if 
toward the clouds, which are represented by a dark curtain, and 
they nod their heads in fear. Lady Squeams (the Right Honorable 
Lord Southdown), her lap-dog, her bags, reticules, and husband sit 
down, and cling hold of some ropes. It is evidently a ship. 

The captain (Colonel Crawley, C.B.), with a cocked hat and a 
telescope, comes in, holding his hat on his head, and looks out ; 
his coat tails fly about as if in the wind. When he leaves go of 
his hat to use his telescope,, his hat flies ofl^ with immense applause. 
It is blowing fresh. The music arises and whistles louder and 
louder ; the mariners go across the stage staggering, as if the ship 
was in severe motion. The steward (the Honorable G. Ringwood) 
passes reeling by, holding six basins. He puts one rapidly by 
Lord Squeams — Lady Squeams, giving a pinch to her dog, which 
begins to howl piteously, puts her pocket-handkerchief to her face, 
and rushes away as for the cabin. The music rises up to the wild- 
est pitch of stormy excitement, and the third syllable is concluded 



A CHARADE IS ACTED. 571 

There was a little ballet, "Le Rossignol," in which Montessu 
and Noblet used to be famous in those days, and which Mr. Wagg 
transferred to the English stage as an opera, putting his verse, of 
Avhich he was a skillful writer, to the pretty airs of the ballet. It 
was dressed in oid French costume, and little Lord Southdown now 
appeared admirably attired in the disguise of an old woman hob- 
bling about the stage with a faultless crooked stick. 

Thrills of melody were heard behind the scenes, and gurgling 
from a sweet paste-board cottage covered with roses and trellis work. 
" Philomele, Philomele," cries the old woman, and Philomele 
comes out. 

More applause — it is Mrs. Rawdon Crawley in powder and 
patches, the most ravissante little marquise in the world. 

She comes in laughing, humming, and frisks about the stage 
with all the innocence of theatrical youth — she makes a courtesy. 
Mamma says, "Why, child, you are always laughing and singing," 
and away she goes, with : 

THE ROSE UPON MY BALCONY. 

The rose upon my balcony, the morning air perfuming, 
Was leafless all the winter time, and pining for the spring ; 

You ask me why her breath is sweet, and why her cheek is blooming, 
It is because the sun is out, and birds begin to sing. 

The nightingale, whose melody is through the greenwood ringing. 
Was silent when the boughs were bare and winds were blowing keen ; 

And if, mamma, you ask of me the reason of his singing. 
It is because the sun is out, and all the leaves are green. 

Thus each performs his part, mamma, the birds have found their voices ; 

The blowing rose a flush, mamma, her bonny cheek to dye ; 
And there's sunshine in my heart, mamma, which wakens and rejoices, 

And so I sing and blush, mamma, and that's the reason why. 

During the intervals of the stanzas of this ditty, the good-natured 
personage addressed as mamma by the singer, and whose 
large whiskers appeared under her cap, seemed very anxious 
to exhibit her maternal affection by embracing the innocent crea- 
ture who performed the daughter's part. Every caress was 
received with loud acclamations of laughter by the sympathizing 
audience. At its conclusion (while the music was performing a sym- 
phony as if ever so many birds were warbling), the whole house was 
unanimous for an encore; and applause and bouquets without end 
were showered upon the nightingale of the evening. Lord Steyne's 
voice of applause was loudest of all. Becky, the nightingale, took the 
flowers which he threw to her, and pressed them to her heart with 
the air of a consummate comedian. Lord Steyne was frantic with 



/ 



J^J 





y.fi^- 



\-_-'~ 

---/V J 














A CHARADE IS ACTED. 573 

delight. His guests' enthusiasm harmonized with his own. Where 
was the beautiful black-eyed houri whose appearance in the first 
charade had caused such delight ? She was twice as handsome as 
Becky, but the briHiancy of the latter had quite eclipsed her. All 
voices were for her. Stephens, Caradori, Ronzi de Begnis — peo- 
ple compared her to one or the other, and agreed, with good reason, 
very likely, that, had she been an actress, none on the stage could 
have surpassed her. She had reached her culmination : her voice 
rose thrilling and bright over the storm of applause, and soared as 
high. and joyful as her triumph. There w^as a ball after the dra- 
matic entertainments, and everybody pressed round Becky as the 
great point of attraction of the evening. The royal personage 
declared with an oath that she w^as perfection, and engaged her 
again and again in conversation. Little Becky's soul swelled with 
pride and delight at these honors : she saw fortune, fame, fashion 
before her. Lord Steyne was her slave ; follow^ed her everywhere, 
and scarcely spoke to any one in the room beside ; and payed her 
most marked compliments and attention. She still appeared in her 
marquise costume and danced a minuet with Monsieur de Truf- 
figny, Monsieur Le Due de la Jabotiere's attache ; and the duke, 
who had all the traditions of the ancient court, pronounced that 
Madame Crawley was worthy to have been a pupil of Vestris, or 
to have figured at Versailles. Only a feeling of dignity, the gout, 
and the strongest sense of duty and personal sacrifice, prevented 
his excellency from dancing with her himself ; and he declared in 
public that a lady who could talk and dance like Mrs. Rawdon was 
fit to be ambassadress at any court in Europe. He was only consoled 
when he heard that she was half a Frenchwoman by birth. "None 
but a compatriot," his excellency declared, " could have performed 
that majestic dance in such a way." 

Then she figured in a waltz with Monsieur de Klingenspohr, the 
prince of Peter^varadin's cousin and attache. The delighted 
prince, having less reteniie than his French diplomatic colleague, 
insisted upon taking a turn with the charming creature, and 
twirled round the ball-room with her, scattering the diamonds out 
of his boot-tassels and hussar jacket until his highness was fairly 
out of breath. Papoosh Pasha himself would have liked to dance 
with her if that amusement had been the custom of his countr}^ 
The company made a circle round her, and applauded as wildly 
as if she had been a Noblet or a Taglioni. Everybody was in 
ecstasy ; and Becky, too, you may be sure. She passed by Lady 
Stunnington with a look of scorn. She patronized Lady Gaunt 
and her astonished and mortified sister-in-law — she/rr^j-/^ all rival 
charmers. As for poor Mrs. Wiiikworth, and her long hair and 
great eyes, which had made such an effect at the commencement of 



574 VANITY FAIR 

the evening ; where was she now ? Nowhere in the race. She 
might tear her long hair and cry her great eyes out ; but there was 
not a person to heed or to deplore the discomfiture. 

The greatest triumph of all w^as at supper-time. She was 
placed at the grand exclusive table with his royal highness, the 
exalted personage before mentioned, and the rest of the great 
guests. She was served on gold plate. She might have had 
pearls melted into her champagne if she liked— another Cleopatra ; 
and the potentate of Peterwaradin would have given half the 
brilliants off his jacket for a kind glance from those dazzling eyes. 
Jabotiere wrote home about her to his government. The ladies 
of the other tables, who supped off mere silver, and marked Lord 
Steyne's constant attention to her, vowed it was a monstrous 
infatuation, a gross insult to ladies of rank. If sarcasm could 
have killed. Lady Stunnington would have slain her on the spot. 

Rawdon Crawley was scared at these triumphs. They seemed 
to separate his w^ife further than ever from him somehow. He 
thought with a feeling very like pain how^ immeasurably she was 
his superior. 

When the hour of departure came, a crowd of young men fol- 
lowed her to her carriage, for which the people without bawled, 
the cry being caught up by the link-men who w'ere stationed out- 
side the tall gates of Gaunt House, congratulating each person 
who issued from the gate and hoping his lordship had enjoyed this 
noble party. 

Mrs. Rawdon Crawley's carriage, coming up to the gate after 
due shouting, rattled into the illuminated court-yard, and drove up 
to the covered way. Rawdon put his wife into the carriage, which 
drove off. Mr. Wenham had proposed to him to walk home, and 
offered the colonel the refreshment of a cigar. 

They lighted their cigars by the lamp of one of the many link- 
boys outside, and Rawdon walked on with his friend Wenham. 
Two persons separated from the crowd and followed the two gen- 
tlemen ; and w^hen they had walked down Gaunt Square a few 
score of paces, one of the men came up, and touching Rawdon on 
the shoulder, said, " Beg your pardon, colonel, I wish to speak to 
you most particular." This gentleman's acquaintance gave a loud 
whistle as the latter spoke, at which signal a cab came clattering 
up from those stationed at the gate of the Gaunt House — and the 
aide-de-camp ran round and placed himself in front of Colonel 
Crawley. 

That gallant officer at once knew what had befallen him. He 
was in the hands of the bailiffs. He started back, falling against 
the man who had first touched him. 

"We're three on us — it's no use bolting,". the man behind said. 



A 


H^^^^^^HH^BMIHf 1 






X 




^ 






P 

W 




• 



A CHARADE IS ACTED. 



575 



" It's you, Moss, is it ? " said the colonel, who appeared to know 
his interlocutor. " How much is it ? " 

" Only a small thing," whispered Mr. Moss, of Cursitor Street, 
Chancery Lane, and assistant officer to the Sheriff of Middlesex — 
" One hundred and sixty-six, six and eightpence, at the suit of Mr. 
Nathan." 

" Lend me a hundred, Wenham, for God's sake," poor Rawdon 
said — " I've got seventy at home." 

" I've not got ten pounds in the world," said poor Mr. Wenham 
— "Good-night, my dear fellow." 

" Good-night," said Rawdon, ruefully. And Wenham walked 
away — and Rawdon Crawley finished his cigar as the cab drove 
under Temple Bar. 



576 



VANITY FAIR. 



CHAPTER LII. 



IN WHICH LORD STEYXE SHOWS HIMSELF IN A MOST AMIABLE LIGHT. 




HEN Lord Steyne was 
benevolently dis- 
posed he did nothing 
by halves, and his 
kindness toward the 
Crawley family did 
the greatest honor to 
his benevolent dis- 
crimination. His 
lordship extended his 
good-will to little 
Rawdon ; he pointed 
out to the boy's pa- 
rents the necessity of 
sending him to a pub- 
lic school; that he 
was of an age now 
when emulation, the 
first principles of the 
Latin language, pugilistic exercises, and the society of his fellow- 
boys would be of the greatest benefit to the boy. His father 
objected that he was not rich enough to send the child to a good 
public school ; his mother, that Briggs was a capital mistress for 
him, and had brought him on (as indeed was the fact) famously in 
English, the Latin rudiments, and in general learning; but all 
these objections disappeared before the generous perseverance of 
the Marquis of Steyne. His lordship was one of the governors of 
that famous old collegiate institution called the Whitefriars. It 
had been a Cistercian convent in old days, when the Smithfield, 
which is contiguous to it, was a tournament ground. Obstinate 
heretics used to be brought thither convenient for burning hard by. 
Henry VIII. , the Defender of the Faith, seized upon the monastery 
and its possessions, and hanged and tortured some of the monks 
who could not accommodate themselves to the pace of his reform. 
Finally, a great merchant bought the house and land adjoining, in 
which, and with the help of other wealthy endowments of land and 
money, he established a famous foundation hospital for old men 



LORD STEYNE IN AN AMIABLE LIGHT. 577 

and children. An extern school grew round the old almost 
monastic foundation, which subsists still with its middle-age cos- 
tume and usages-; and all Cistercians pray that it may long 
flourish. 

Of this famous house some of the greatest noblemen, prelates, 
and dignitaries in England are governors ; and as the boys are 
very comfortably lodged, fed, and educated, and subsequently in- 
ducted to good scholarships at the university and livings in the 
church, many little gentlemen are devoted to the ecclesiastical pro- 
fession from their tenderest years, and there is considerable emula- 
tion to procure nominations for the foundation. It was originally 
intended for the sons of poor and deserving clerics and laics ; but* 
many of the noble governors of the institution, with an enlarged 
and rather capricious benevolence, selected all sorts of objects for 
■"heir county. To get an education for nothing, and a future liveli- 
hood and profession assured, was so excellent a scheme that some 
of the richest people did not disdain it ; and not only great men's 
relations, but great men themselves, sent their sons to profit by the 
chance — Right Rev. prelates sent their own kinsmen or the sons 
of their clergy, while, on the other hand, some great noblemen did 
not disdain to patronize the children of their confidential servants 
— so that a lad entering this establishment had every variety of 
youthful society wherewith to mingle. 

Rawdon Crawley, though the only book which he studied was 
the Racing Calendar, and though his chief recollections of polite 
learning were connected with the floggings which he received at 
Eton in his early youth, had that decent and honest reverence for 
classical learning which all English gentlemen feel, and was glad to 
think that his son was to have a provision for life, perhaps, and a 
certain opportunity of becoming a scholar. And although his boy 
was his chief solace and companion, and endeared to him by a 
thousand small ties, about which he did not care to speak to his 
wife, who had all along shown the utmost indifference to their son, 
3^et Rawdon agreed at once to part with him, and to give up his 
own greatest comfort and benefit for the sake of the welfare of the 
little lad. He did not know how fond he was of the child until it 
became necessary to let him go away. When he was gone he felt 
more sad and downcast than he cared to own — far sadder than the 
boy himself, who was happy enough to enter a new career, and 
find companions of his own age. Becky burst out laughing once 
or twice, when the colonel, in his clumsy, incoherent way, tried to 
express his sentimental sorrows at the boy's departure. The poor 
fellow felt that his dearest pleasure and closest friend was taken 
from him. He looked often and wistfully at the little vacant bed 
in his dressing-room, where the child used to sleep. He missed 
37 



578 VANITY FAIR. 

him sadly of mornings, and tried in vain to walk in the park with- 
out him. He did not know how solitary he was until little Raw- 
don was gone. He liked the people who were fond of him ; and 
would go and sit for long hours with his good-natured sister Lady 
Jane, and talk to her about the virtues, and good loojcs, and hun- 
dred good qualities of the child. 

Young Rawdon's aunt, we have said, was very fond of him, as 
was her little girl, who wept copiously when the time for her 
cousin's departure came. The elder Rawdon was thankful for the 
fondness of mother and daughter. The very best and honestest 
feelings of the man came out in these artless outpourings of pater- 
nal feeling in which he indulged in their presence, and encouraged 
by their sympathy. He secured not only Lady Jane's kindness, 
but her sincere regard, by the feelings which he manifested, and 
which he could not show to his own wife. The two kinswomen 
met as seldom as possible. Becky laughed bitterly at Jane's feel- 
ings and softness ; the other's kindly and gentle nature could not 
but revolt at her sister's callous behavior. 

It estranged Rawdon from his wife more than he knew or ac- 
knowledged to himself. She did nor care for the estrangement. 
Indeed, she did not miss him or anybody. She looked upon him 
as her errand-man and humble slave. He might be' ever so de- 
pressed or sulky, and she did not mark his demeanor, or only 
treated it with a sneer. She was busy thinking about her position, 
or her pleasures, or her advancement in society ; she ought to have 
held a great place in it, that is certain. 

It was honest Briggs who made up the little kit for the boy 
which he was to take to school. Molly, the housemaid, blubbered 
in the passage when he went away — Molly kind and faithful in 
spite of a long arrear of unpaid wages. Mrs. Becky could not let 
her husband have the carriage to take the boy to school. Take 
the horses into the city ! — such a thing was never heard of. Let a 
cab be brought. She did not offer to kiss him when he went ; nor 
did the child propose to embrace her ; but gave a kiss to old Briggs 
(whom, in general, he was very shy of caressing), and consoled her 
by pointing out that he was to come home on Saturdays, when she 
would have the benefit of seeing him. As the cab rolled toward 
the city, Becky's carriage rattled off to the park. She was chat- 
tering and laughing with a score of young dandies by the Serpen- 
tine, as the father and son entered at the old gates of the school, 
where Rawdon left the child, and came away with a sadder, purer 
feeling in his heart than perhaps that poor battered fellow had 
ever known since he himself came out of the nurser}^ 

He walked all the way home very dismally, and dined alone 
with Briggs. He was very kind to her, and grateful for her love 



LORD STEYNE IN AN AMIABLE LIGHT. 579 

and watchfulness over the boy. His conscience smote him that 
he had borrowed Briggs's money and aided in deceiving her. 
They t*alked about Httle Rawdon a long time, for Becky only came 
home to dress and go out to dinner. And then he went off un- 
easily to drink tea with Lady Jane, and tell her of what had hap- 
pened, and how little Rawdon went off like a trump, and how he 
was to wear a gown and little knee-breeches, and how young Black- 
ball, Jack Blackball's son, of the old regiment, had taken him in 
charge, and promised to be kind to him. 

In the course of a week young Blackball had constituted little 
Rawdon his fag, shoeblack, and breakfast toaster; initiated him 
into the mysteries of the Latin grammar, and thrashed him three or 
four times, but not severel3\ The little chap's good-natured honest 
face won his way for him. He only got that degree of beating 
which was, no doubt, good for him ; and as for blacking shoes, 
toasting bread, and fagging in general, were these offices not 
deemed to be necessary parts of every young English gentleman's 
education ? 

Our business does not lie with the second generation and Mas- 
ter Rawdon's life at school, otherwise the present tale might be 
carried to any indefinite length. The colonel went to see his son 
a short time afterward, and found the lad sufficiently well and 
happy, grinning and laughing in his little black gown and little 
breeches. 

His father sagaciously tipped Blackball, his master, a sovereign, 
and secured that young gentleman's good-will toward his fag. As 
2l protege of the great Lord Steyne, the nephew of a county mem- 
ber, and a son of a colonel and C.B., whose name appeared in 
some of the most fashionable parties in the Mornijig Post., perhaps 
the school authorities were disposed not to look unkindly on the 
child. He had plenty of pocket-money ; which he spent in treat- 
ing his comrades royally to raspberry tarts, and he was often al- 
lowed to come home on Saturdays to his father, who always made 
a jubilee of that day. When free, Rawdon would take him to the 
play, or send him thither with the footman ; and on Sundays he 
went to church with Briggs and Lady Jane and his cousins. 
Rawdon marveled over his stories about school, and fights, and 
fagging. Before long, he knew the names of all the masters and 
the principal boys as well as little Rawdon himself. He invited 
little Rawdon's crony from school, and made both the children 
sick with pastry, and oysters, and porter after the play. He tried 
to look knowing over the Latin grammar when little Rawdon 
showed him what part of that work he was " in." " Stick to it, 
my boy," he said to him with much gravity, " there's nothing like 
a good classical education ! nothing ! " 



58o 



VAA^ITY FAIR. 



Becky's contempt for her husband grew greater every day. 
" Do what you like — dine where you please — go and have ginger- 
beer and sawdust at Astley's or psalm-singing with Lady Jane — 
only don't expect 7?ie to busy myself with the boy. I have your 
interests to attend to, as you can't attend to them yourself. I 




should like to know where you would have been now, and in what 
sort of a position in society, if I had not looked after you ? " 
Indeed, nobody wanted poor old Rawdon at the parties whither 
Becky used to go. She was often asked without him now. She 
talked about great people as if she had the fee-simple of May 
Fair ; and when the court went into mourning she always wore 
black. 



LORD STEYNE IN AN AMIABLE LIGHT. 581 

Little Rawdon being disposed of, Lord Steyne, who took such a 
parental interest in the affairs of this amiable poor family, thought 
that their expenses might be very advantageously curtailed by the 
•departure of Miss Briggs ; and that Becky was q^aite clever enough 
to take the management of her own house. It has been narrated 
in the former chapter, how the benevolent nobleman had given his 
protegee money to pay off her little debt to Miss Briggs, who how- 
ever still remained behind with her friends ; whence my lord came 
to the painful conclusion that Mrs. Crawley had made some other 
use of the money confided to her than that for which her generous 
patron had given the loan. However, Lord Steyne was not so 
rude as to impart his suspicions upon this head to Mrs. Becky, 
whose feelings might be hurt by any controversy on the money 
question, and who might have a thousand painful reasons for 
disposing otherwise of his lordship's generous loan. But he deter- 
mined to satisfy himself of the real state of the case ; and in- 
stituted the necessar}^ inquiries in a most cautious and delicate 
manner. 

In the first place he took an early opportunity of pumping ]Miss 
Briggs. That was not a difficult operation. A very little encourage- 
ment would set that worthy woman to talk volubly, and pour out all 
within her. And one day when Mrs. Rawdon had gone out to 
drive (as Mr. Fiche, his lordship's confidential ser\'ant, easily 
learned at the livery stables where the Crawleys kept their carriage 
and horses, or rather, where the livery-man kept a carriage and 
horses for Mr. and Mrs. Crawdey) — my lord dropped in upon the 
Curzon Street house — asked Briggs for a cup of coffee — told her 
that he had good accounts of the little boy at school — and in five 
minutes found out from her that Mrs. Rawdon had given her 
nothing except a black silk gown, for which Miss Briggs was 
immensely grateful. 

He laughed within himself at this artless story. For the truth 
is, our dear friend Rebecca had given him a most circumstantial 
narration of Briggs's delight at receiving her money — eleven hun- 
dred and twenty-five pounds — and in what securities she had invest- 
ed it ; and what a pang Becky herself felt in being obliged to pay 
away such a delightful sum of money. " Who knows," the dear 
woman may have thought within herself, " perhaps he may give me 
a little more ? " ]\Iy lord, however, made no such proposal to the 
little schemer — very likely thinking that he had been sufficiently 
generous already. 

He had the curiosity, then, to ask Miss Briggs about the state of 
ner private affairs — and she told his lordship candidly what her 
position was — how Miss Crawley had left her a legacy — how her 
rrelatives had had part of it — how Colonel Crawley had put out 



S82 VANITY FAIR. 

another portion, for which she had the best security and interest — 
and how Mr. and Mrs. Rawdon had kindly busied themselves with; 
Sir Pitt, who was to dispose of the remainder most advantageously 
for her, when he had time. My lord asked how much the colonel 
had already invested for her, and Miss Briggs at once and truly told 
him that the sum was six hundred and odd pounds. 

But as soon as she had told her story, the voluble Briggs repented, 
of her frankness, and besought my lord not to tell Mr. Crawley of 
the confessions which she had made. " The colonel was so kind 
— Mr. Crawley might be offended and pay back the money, for 
which she could get no such, good interest anywhere else." Lord 
Steyne, laughing, promised he never would divulge their conver- 
sation and when he and Miss Briggs parted he laughed still more. 

" What an accomplished little devil it is ! " thought he. "What 
a splendid actress and manager ! She had almost got a second 
supply out of me the other day, with her coaxing ways. She beats 
all the women I have ever seen in the course of all my well-spent 
life. They are babies compared to her. I am a greenhorn my- 
self, and a fool in her hands — an old fool. She is unsur- 
passable in lies." His lordship's admiration for Becky rose 
immeasurably at this proof of her cleverness. Getting the money 
was nothing — but getting double the sum she wanted, and paying 
nobody — it was a magnificent stroke. And Crawley, my lord 
thought — Crawley is not such a fool as he looks and seems. He 
has managed the matter cleverly enough on his side. Nobody 
would ever have supposed from his face and demeanor that he 
knew anything about this money business ; and yet he put her up 
to it, and has spent the money, no doubt. In this opinion my lord, 
we know, was mistaken ; but it influenced a good deal his behavior 
toward Colonel Crawley, whom he began to treat with even less 
than that semblance of respect which he had formerly shown 
toward that gentleman. It never entered into the head of Mrs. 
Crawley's patron that the little lady might he making a purse for 
herself ; and, perhaps, if the truth must be told, he judged of Colonel 
Crawley by his experiences of other husbands, whom he had known 
in the course of the long and well-spent life which had made him 
acquainted with a great deal of the weakness of mankind. My 
lord had bought so many men during his life, that he was surely 
to be pardoned for supposing that he had found the price of this ■ 
one. 

He taxed Becky upon the point on the very first occasion when^ 
he met her alone, and he complimented her, good-humoredly, on 
her cleverness in getting more than the money which she required.. 
BecKV was only a Uttle taken aback. It was not the habit of this 
dear creature to tell falsehoods, except when necessity compelled,. 




Photo by Byron 



LORD STEYNE IN AN AMIABLE LIGHT. 583 

but in these great emergencies it was her practice to lie very 
freely; and in an instant she was ready with another neat, plausible 
circumstantial story which she administered to her patron. The 
previous statement which she had made to him was a falsehood — a 
wicked falsehood : she owned it ; but who had made her tell it ? 
"Ah, my lord! " she said, "you don't know all I have to suifer 
and bear in silence ; you see me gay and happy before you — you 
little know what I have to endure when there is no protector near 
me. It was my husband, by threats and the most savage treatment, 
forced me to ask for that sum about which I deceived you. It was 
he who, foreseeing that questions might be asked regarding the 
disposal of the money, forced me to account for it as I did. He 
took the money. He told me he had paid Miss Briggs ; I did not 
Vv^ant, I did not dare to doubt him. Pardon the wrong which a 
desperate man is forced to commit, and pity a miserable, miserable 
woman." She burst into tears as she spoke. Persecuted virtue 
never looked more bewitchingly wretched. 

They had a long conversation, driving round and round the 
Regent's Park in Mrs. Crawley's carriage, together, a conversation 
of which it is not necessary to repeat the details ; but the upshot 
of it was that when Becky came home, she flew to her dear Briggs 
with a smiling face, and announced that she had some very good 
news for her. Lord Steyne had acted in the noblest and most 
generous manner. He was always thinking how and when he 
could do good. Now that little Rawdon was gone to school, a 
dear companion and friend was no longer necessary to her. She 
was grieved beyond measure to part with Briggs ; but her means 
required that she should practice every retrenchment, and her 
sorrow was mitigated by the idea that her dear Briggs would be 
far better provided for by her generous patron than in her humble 
home. Mrs. Pilkington, the housekeeper of Gauntly Hall, was 
growing exceedingly old, feeble and rheumatic ; she was not equal 
to the work of superintending that vast mansion, and must be on 
the lookout for a successor. It was a splendid position. The 
family did not go to Gauntly once in two years. At other times 
the housekeeper was the mistress of the magnificent mansion — had 
four covers daily for her table ; was visited by the clergy and the 
most respectable people of the county — was the lady of Gauntly, 
in fact ; and the two last housekeepers before Mrs. Pilkington 
had married rectors of Gauntly ; but Mrs. P. could not, being the 
aunt of the present rector. The place was not to be hers yet ; but 
she might go down on a visit to Mrs. Pilkington and see whether 
she would like to succeed her. 

What words can paint the ecstatic gratitude of Brisss ? All she 
stipulated for was that little Rawdon sh^u^d i^t. ^.U^wed to coKie 



584 VANITY FAIR. 

down and see her at the hall. Becky promised this — anything. 
She ran up to her husband when he came home, and told him the 
joyful news. Rawdon was glad, deuced glad ; the weight was off 
his conscience about poor Briggs's money. She was provided for, 
at any rate, but — but his mind was disquiet. He did not seem 
to be all right somehow. He told little Southdown what Lord 
Steyne had done, and the young man eyed Crawley with an air 
which surprised the latter. 

He told Lady Jane of this second proof of Steyne's bounty, 
and she, too, looked odd and alarmed ; so did Sir Pitt. " She is 
too clever and — and gay to be allowed to go from party to party 
without a companion," both said. " You must go with her, Raw- 
don, wherever she goes, and you must have somebody with her — 
one of the girls from Queen's Crawley, perhaps, though they were 
rather "giddy guardians for her." 

Somebody Beck}^ should have. But in the mean time it was 
clear that honest Briggs must not lose her chance of settlement 
for life ; and so she and her bags were packed, and she set off on 
her journey. And so two of Rawdon's out-sentinels were in the 
hands of the enemy. 

Sir Pitt went and expostulated with his sister-in-law upon the 
subject of the dismissal of Briggs, and other matters of delicate 
family interest. In vain she pointed out to him how necessary 
was the protection of Lord Steyne for her poor husband ; how 
cruel it would be on their part to deprive Briggs of the position 
offered to her. Cajolements, coaxings, smiles, tears could not 
satisfy Sir Pitt, and he had something very like a quarrel with his 
once admired Becky. He spoke of the honor of the family ; the 
unsullied reputation of the Crawleys : expressed himself in indig- 
nant tones about her receiving those young Frenchmen — those 
wild young men of fashion, my Lord Steyne himself, whose car- 
riage was always at her door, who passed hours daily in her com- 
pany, and whose constant presence made the world talk about her. 
As the head of the house he implored her to be more prudent. 
Society was already speaking lightly of her. Lord Steyne, though 
a nobleman of the greatest station and talents, was a man whose 
attentions would compromise any woman ; he besought, he implored, 
he commanded his sister-in-law to be watchful in her intercourse 
with that nobleman. 

Becky promised anything and everything Pitt wanted ; but Lord 
Steyne came to her house as often as ever, and Sir Pitt's anger in- 
creased. I wonder was Lady Jane angn' or pleased that her hus- 
band at last found fault with his favorite Rebecca ? Lord Steyne's 
visits continuing, his own ceased ; and his wife was for refusing all 
further intercourse with that nobleman, and declining the invita- 




Photo by Byron 



LORD STEYXE IX AX AMIABLE LIGHT. 5S5 

tion for the charade-night ^vhich the marchioness sent to her ; but 
Sir Pitt thought it was necessary to accept it, as his royal highness 
would be there. 

Although he went to the party in question, Sir Pitt quitted it 
very early, and his wife, too, was ver}- glad to come away. Becky 
hardly so much as spoke to them or noticed her sister-in-law. Pitt 
Crawley declared her behavior was monstrously indecorous, repro- 
bated in strong terms the habit of play-acting and fancy dressing, 
as highly unbecoming in a British female ; and after the charades 
were over, took his brother Rawdon to task for appearing himself, 
and allowing his wife to join in such improper exhibitions. 

Rawdon said she should not join in any more such amusements ; 
but indeed, and perhaps from hints from his elder brother and 
sister, he had already become a very watchful and exemplary 
domestic character. He left off his clubs and billiards. He never 
left home. He took Becky out to drive ; he went laboriously with 
her to all her parties. Whenever my Lord Steyne called, he was 
sure to find the colonel. And when Becky proposed to go out 
without her husband, or received invitations for herself, he per- 
emptorily ordered her to refuse them ; and there was that in the 
gentleman's manner which enforced obedience. Little Becky, to 
do her justice, was charmed with Rawdon's gallantry. If he was 
surly, she never was. Whether friends were present or absent, she 
had always a kind smile for him, and was attentive to his pleasure 
and comfort. It was the early days of their marriage over again ; 
the same good humor, prevenances, merriment, and artless confi- 
dence and regard. " How much pleasanter it is," she would say, 
" to ha.ve you by my side in the carriage than that foolish old 
Briggs ! Let us always go on so, dear Rawdon. How nice it 
would be, and how happy we should always be, if we had but the 
money ! " He fell asleep after dinner in his chair ; he did not see 
the face opposite to him, haggard, weary, and terrible ; it lighted 
up with fresh candid smiles when he woke. It kissed him gayly. 
He wondered that he had ever had suspicions. No, he never had 
suspicions ; all those dumb doubts and surly misgivings which had 
been gathering on his mind were mere idle jealousies. She was 
fond of him ; she always had been. As for her shining in societ}', it 
was no fault of hers ; she was formed to shine there. Was there any 
woman who could talk, or sing, or do anything like her t If she 
would but like the boy ! Rawdon thought. But the mother and 
son never could be brought together. 

And it was while Rawdon's mind was agitated with these doubts 
and perplexities that the incident occurred which was mentioned in 
the last chapter ; and the unfortunate colonel found himself a pris- 
oner awav from home. 



586 



VANITY FAIR. 



CHAPTER LIII. 



A RESCUE AND A CATASTROPHE. 







RIEND RAW- 
DON drove on 
then to Mr. Moss's 
mansion in Cursi- 
tor Street, and was 
duly inducted into 
that dismal place 
of hospitality. 
Morning was 
breaking over the 
cheerful house- 
tops of Chancery 
Lane as the rat- 
tling cab woke up 
the echoes there. 
A little pink-eyed 
Jew boy, with a 
head as ruddy as 
the rising morn, let the party into the house, and Rawdon was wel- 
comed to the ground-floor apartments by Mr. Moss, his traveling 
-companion and host, who cheerfully asked him if he would like a 
-glass of something warm after his drive. 

The colonel was not so depressed as some mortals would be, 
who, quitting a palace, and 2.placens uxor, find themselves barred 
into a sponging-house ; for if the truth must be told, he had been 
a lodger at Mr. Moss's establishment once or twice before. We 
have not thought it necessary in the previous course of this narra- 
tive to mention these trivial little domestic incidents ; but the 
reader may be assured that they can't unfrequently occur in the life 
of a man who lives on nothing a year. 

Upon his first visit to Mr. Moss, the colonel, then a bachelor, 
had been liberated by the generosity of his aunt ; on the second 
mishap, little Becky, with the greatest spirit and kindness, had bor- 
rowed a sum of money from Lord Southdown, and had coaxed her 
husband's creditor (who was her shawl, velvet gown, lace-pocket- 
handkerchief, trinket, and gim-crack purveyor, indeed) to take a 



A RESCUE AND A CATASTROPHE. 587 

portion of the sum claimed, and Rawdon's promissory note for the 
remainder ; so on both these occasions the capture and release had 
been conducted with the utmost gallantry on all sides, and Moss 
and the colonel were therefore on the very best of terms. 

" You'll find your old bed, colonel, and everything comfortable," 
that gentleman said, " as I may honestly say. You may be pretty 
sure it's kep' aired, and by the best of company too. It was slep' 
in the night afore last by the Honorable Captain Famish, of the 
Fiftieth Dragoons, whose mar took him out, after a fortnight, jest 
to punish him, she said. But, Law bless you, I promise you, he 
punished my champagne, and had a party 'ere every night — 
Teg'lar tip-top swells down from the clubs and the West End — 
•Captain Ragg, the Honorable Deuceace, who lives in the Temple, 
and some fellers as knows a good glass of wine, I warrant you. 
I've got a Doctor of Diwinity up stairs, five gents in the coffee- 
room, and Mrs Moss has a tably-de-hoty at half-past five, and a lit- 
tle cards or music afterward, when we shall be most happy to see 
you." 

" I'll ring when I want anything," said Rawdon, and went quietly 
to his bedroom. He was an old soldier, we have said, and not to 
be disturbed by any little shocks of fate. A weaker man would 
have sent off a letter to his wife on the instant of his capture. 
"But what is the use of disturbing her night's rest.''" 11 3ught 
Rawdon. " She won't know whether I am in my room or not. It 
will be time enough to write to her when she has had her sleep out, 
and I have had mine. It's only a hundred and seventy, and the 
deuce is in it if we can't raise that." And so thinking al30ut little 
Rawdon (whom he would not like to know that he was in such a 
queer place), the colonel turned into the bed lately occupied by 
Captain Famish, and fell asleep. It was ten o'clock when he woke 
"up, and the ruddy-headed youth brought him, with conscious pride, 
a fine silver dressing-case, wherewith he might perform the opera- 
tion of shaving. Indeed, Mr. Moss's house, though somewhat 
dirty, was splendid throughout. There were dirty trays and wine- 
coolers en per7?iane7ice on the side-board, huge dirty gilt cornices, 
with dingy yellow satin hangings to the barred windows which 
looked into Cursitor Street — vast and dirty gilt picture-frames sur- 
rounding pieces sporting and sacred, all of which works were by 
the greatest masters ; and fetched the greatest prices, too, in the 
bill transactions, in the course of which they were sold and bought 
over and over again. The colonel's breakfast was served to him 
in the same dingy and gorgeous plated ware. Miss Moss, a dark- 
eyed maid in curl papers, appeared with the teapot, and, smiling, 
asked the colonel how he had slept ? and she brought him in the 
Morning Post, with the names of all the great people w^ho had 



5S8 VANITY FAIR. 

figured at Lord Steyne's entertainment the night before. It con- 
tained a brilliant account of the festivities, and of the beautiful and 
accomplished Mrs. Rawdon Crawley's admirable personifications. 

After a lively chat with this lady (who sat on the edge of the 
breakfast table in an easy attitude displaying the drapery of her 
stocking and an ex-white satin shoe, which was down at heel), Colo- 
nel Crawley called for pens and ink and paper ; and being asked 
how many sheets, chose one which was brought to him between 
Miss Moss's own finger and thumb. Many a sheet had that dark- 
eyed damsel brought in ; many a poor fellow had scrawled and 
blotted hurried lines of entreaty, and paced up and down that 
awful room until his messenger brought back the reply. Poor 
men always use messengers instead of the post. Who has not had 
their letters, with the wafers wet, and the announcement that a 
person is waiting in the hall ? 

Now on the score of his application, Rawdon had not many mis- 
givings. 

" Dear Becky (Rawdon wrote), "■ I hope you slept -well. Don't be frightened 
if I don't bring 3-ou in your coffy. Last night as I was coming home smoaking, 
I met with an accadeiit. I was nabbed by Moss of Cursitor Street — from whose 
gilt and splendid parler I write this — the same that had me this time two years. 
Miss Moss brought in my tea — she is grown very fat, and, as usual, had her 
stockens down at heal. 

" It's Nathan's business — a hundred-and-fifty — ^w^ith costs, hundred-and-sev- 
enty. Please send me my desk and some cloths — I'm in pumps and a white t\'e 
(something like Miss M.'s stockings) — I've seventy in it. And as soon as you 
get this Drive to Nathan's — offer hnn seventy-five down, and ask hivi to renew 
— say I'll take wine — we may as well have some dinner sherry; but not picturs, 
they're too dear. 

" If he won't stand it. Take my ticker and such of your things as you can 
spare, and send them to Balls — we riiust, of coarse, have the sum to-night. It 
won't do to let it stand over, as to morrow's Sunday ; the beds here are not 
very clean, and there may be other things out agaiitst me — I'm glad it an't Raw- 
don's Saturday for coming home. God bless you. 

" Yours in haste, R. C. 

" P. S. Make haste and come." 

This letter, sealed with a wafer, was dispatched by one of the 
messengers who are always hanging about Mr. Moss's establishment ; 
and Rawdon having seen him depart, went out in the court-yard, and 
smoked his cigar with a tolerably easy mind — in spite of the bars 
overhead ; for Mr. Moss's court-yard is railed in like a cage, lest 
the gentlemen who are boarding with him should take a fancy to 
escape from his hospitality. 

Three hours, he calculated, would be the utmost time required 
before Becky should arrive and open his prison-doors ; and he 
passed these prett}^ cheerfully in smoking, in reading the paper, 
and in the coffee-room with an acquaintance, Captain Walker, who 



A RESCUE AXD A CATASTROPHE. 589 

happened to be there, and with whom he cut for sixpences for 
some hours, with pretty equal luck on either side. 

But the day passed away and no messenger returned — no Becky. 
Mr. Moss's tably-dy-hoty was served at the appointed hour of half- 
past five, when such of the gentlemen lodgnig in the house as 
could afford to pay for the banquet, came and partook of it in the 
splendid front parlor before described, and with which IMr. Craw- 
ley's temporary lodging communicated, when Miss M. (]\Iiss Hem, 
as her papa called her), appeared without the curl papers of the 
morning, and Mrs. Hem did the honors of a prime boiled leg of 
mutton and turnips, of which the colonel ate with a very faint 
appetite. Asked whether he would " stand " a bottle of cham- 
pagne for the company, he consented, and the ladies drank to his 
"ealth, and Mr. Moss, in the most polite manner, " looked toward 
him." 

In the midst of this repast, however, the door-bell was heard — 
young Moss of the ruddy hair rose up with the keys and answered 
the summons, and coming back, told the colonel that the messen- 
ger had returned with a bag, a desk and a letter, which he gave 
him. " No ceramony, colonel, I beg,'" said Mrs. Moss with a 
wave of her hand, and he opened the letter rather tremulously — 
It was a beautiful letter, highly scented, on a pink paper, and with 
a light green seal. 

"Mox PAUVRE CHER PETIT (Mrs. Crawlev wrote), I could not sleep om 
TviJik for thinking of what had become of uiy odious old monstre : and only-got 
to rest in the morning after sending for Mr. Blench (for I was in a fever), who 
gave me a composing draught and left orders with Finette that I should be dis- 
turbed on no account. So that my poor old man's messenger who had bieti mau- 
vaise ifiine Finette says, and sentoit le Gefiievre^ remained in the hall for some 
hours waiting my bell. You may fancy my state when I Vead your poor dear 
old ill-spek letter. 

" 111 as I was, I instantly called for the carriage, and as soon as I was dressed 
(though I couldn't drink a drop of chocolate — I assure you I couldn't without 
my monstre to bring it to me), I drove ventre a terre to Nathan's. I saw him — 
I wept — I cried — I fell at his odious kiiees. Nothing would mollify the horrid 
man. He would have all the money he said, or keep my poor moftstre in prison. 
I drove home with the intention of paying that triste vi'site chez mon oncle (when 
every trinket I have should be at your disposal, though they would not fetch a 
hundred pounds, for some, vou know, are with ce cher oncle already), and found 
milor there with the Bulgarian old sheep-faced monster, who had come to com- 
pliment me upon last night's performances. Paddington came in, too, drawling 
and lisping and twiddling his hair ; so did Champignac, and his chef^&Y&ry- 
body \\\t\i foison of compliments and pretty speeches — plaguing poor me, who 
longed to be rid of them, and was thinking every moment of the time of mon 
paicvre prisoinier. 

" When they were gone, I went down on my knees to milor ; told him we 
were going to pawn everything, and begged and prayed him to give me two 
hundred pounds. He pish'd and psha'd in a furv — told me not to be such a fool 
as to pawn — and said he would see whether he could lend me the money. At 



590 



VAAYTY FAIR. 



last he went away, promising that he would send it me in the morning ; when I 
will bring it to mv poor old moiistre with a kiss from his affectionate 

" Becky. 
" I am wTiting in bed. Oh, I have such a headache and such a heartache ! " 

When Rawdon read over this letter, he turned so red, and 
looked so savage, that the company at the table d'hote, easily per- 
ceived that bad news had reached him. All his suspicions, which 
he had been trxing to banish, returned upon him. She could not 
even go out and sell her trinkets to free him. She could laugh 
and talk about compliments paid to her, while he was in prison. 
Who had put him there ? Wenham had walked with him. Was 
there .... He could hardly bear to think of what he sus- 
pected. Leaving the room hurriedly he ran into his own, opened 
his desk, wrote two hurried lines, which he directed to Sir Pitt or 

Lady Crawley, 
^t i .. u I '.. and bade the 
messenger carr}- 
them at once to 
Gaunt Street, 
bidding him to 
take a cab, and 
promising him a 
guinea if he was 
back in an hour. 
In the note he 
besought his 
dear brother and 
sister, for the 
sake of God ; for 
the sake of his 
dear child and 
his honor; to 
come to him and 
relieve him from 
his difficulty. 
He was in pri- 
son ; he wanted 
a hundred 
pounds to set 
him free — he en- 
treated them to 
come to him. 

He went back to the dining-room after dispatching his messen- 
ger, and called for more wine. He laughed and talked with a 
strano-e boisterousness, as the people thought. Sometimes he 




A RESCUE AND A CATASTROPHE. 591 

laughed madly at his own fears, and went on drinking for an hour ; 
listening all the while for the carriage which was to bring his fate 
back. 

At the expiration of that time, wheels w^ere heard whirling up to 
the gate — the young janitor went out with his gate-keys. It was a 
lady whom he let in at the bailiff's door. 

" Colonel Crawley," she said, trembling very much. He, with 
a knowing look, locked the outer door upon her — then unlocked 
and opened the inner one, and calling out, " Colonel, you're want- 
ed," led her into the back parlor, which he occupied. 

Rawdon came in from the dining parlor where all those people 
were carousing, into his back room , a flare of coarse light follow- 
ing him into the apartment where the lady stood, still very 
nervous. 

" It is I, Rawdon," she said, in a timid voice, which she strove 
to render cheerful. " It is Jane." Rawdon was quite overcome 
by that kind voice and presence. He ran up to her — caught her 
in his arrns — gasped out some inarticulate words of thanks, and 
fairly sobbed on her shoulder. She did not know the cause of his 
emotion. 

The bills of Mr. Moss were quickly settled, perhaps to the dis- 
appointment of that gentleman, who had counted on having the 
colonel as his guest over Sunday at least ; and Jane, with beaming 
smiles and happiness in her eyes, carried away Rawdon from the 
bailiff's house, and they went homeward in the cab in which she 
had hastened to his release. " Pitt was gone to a parliamentary 
dinner," she said, " when Rawdon's note came, and so, dear Raw- 
don, I — I came myself , " and she put her kind hand in his. Per- 
haps it was well for Rawdon Crawley that Pitt was away at that 
dinner. Rawdon thanked his sister a hundred times, and with an 
ardor of gratitude which touched and almost alarmed that soft- 
hearted woman. " Oh," said he in his rude, artless way, " you — 
you don't know how I'm changed since I've known you, and — and 
little Rawdy, I — I'd like to change somehow. You see I want — 

I want — to be ." He did not finish the sentence, but she 

could interpret it. A-nd that night after he left her, and as she sat 
by her own little boy's bed, she prayed humbly for that poor way- 
worn sinner. 

Rawdon left her and walked home rapidly. It was nine o'clock 
at night. He ran across the streets, and the great squares of 
Vanity Fair, and at length came up breathless opposite his own 
house. He started back and fell against the railings, trembling 
as he looked up. The drawing-room windows were blazing with 



592 VANITY FAIR. 

light. She had said that she was in bed and ill. He stood there 
for some time, the light from the rooms on his pale face. 

He took out his door-key and let himself into the house. He 
could hear laughter in the upper rooms. He was in the ball-dress 
in which he had been captured the night before. He went silently 
up the stairs ; leaning against the banisters at the stair-head. 
Nobody was stirring in the house besides — all the servants had 
been sent away. Rawdon heard laughter within — laughter and 
singing. Becky was singing a snatch of the song of the night before ; 
a hoarse voice shouted " Brava ! Brava! " — it was Lord Steyne's. 

Rawdon opened the door and went in. A little table with a 
dinner was laid out — and wine and plate. Steyne was hanging 
over the sofa on which Becky sat. The wretched woman was in a 
brilliant full toilet, her arms and all her fingers sparkling with 
bracelets and rings ; and the brilliants on her breast which Steyne 
had given her. He had her hand in his, and was bowing over it to 
kiss it, when Becky started up with a faint scream as she caught 
sight of Rawdon's white face. At the next instant she tried a smile, 
a horrid smile, as if to welcome her husband ; and Steyne rose up, 
grinding his teeth, pale, and with fury in his looks. 

He too attempted a laugh — and came forward holding out his 
hand. " What, come back ! How d'ye do, Crawley ? " he said, 
the nerves of his mouth twitching as he tried to grin at the intruder. 

There was that in Rawdon's face which caused Becky to fling 
herself before him. " I am innocent, Rawdon," she said ; " before 
God, I am innocent." She clung hold of his coat, of his hands ; 
her own were all covered with serpents, and rings, and baubles. 
*' I am innocent. — Say I am innocent," she said to Lord Steyne. 

He thought a trap had been laid for him, and was as furious with 
the wife as with the husband. "You innocent! Damn you," he 
screamed out. " You innocent ! Why ever}^ trinket you have on 
your body is paid for by me. I have given you thousands of pounds 
which this fellow has spent, and for which he has sold you. Inno- 
cent, by ! You're as innocent as your mother, the ballet-girl, 

and your husband the bully. Don't think to frighten me as you 
have done others. INIake way, sir, and let me pass ;" and Lord 
Steyne seized up his hat, and, with flame in his eyes, and looking 
his enemy fiercely in the face, marched upon him, never for a moment 
doubting that the other would give way. 

But Rawdon Crawley springing out, seized him by the neckcloth, 
until Steyne, almost strangled, writhed, and bent under his arm. 
" You lie, you dog ! " said Rawdon. " You lie, you coward and 
villain ! " And he struck the peer twice over the face with his open 
hand, and flung him bleeding to the ground. It was all done before 



I 



A RESCUE AND A CATASTROPHE. 593 

Rebecca could interpose. She stood there trembling before him 
She admired her husband, strong, brave, and victorious. 

" Come here," he said. She came up at once. 

" Take off those things." She began, trembhng, pulling the 
jewels from her arms, and the rings from her shaking fingers, and 
held them all in a heap, quivering and looking up at him. " Throw 
them down," he said, and she dropped them. He tore the diamond 
ornament out of her breast, and flung it at Lord Steyne. It cut 
him on his bald forehead. Steyne wore the scar to his dying day. 

" Come up stairs," Rawdon said to his wife. " Don't kill me, 
Rawdon," she said. He laughed savagely. " I want to see if that 
man lies about the money as he has about me. Has he given you 
any ? " 

" No," said Rebecca, " that is " 

" Give me your keys," Rawdon answered, and they went out 
together. 

Rebecca gave him all the keys but one ; and she was in hopes 
that he would not have remarked the absence of that. It belonged 
to the little desk which Amelia had given her in early days, and 
which she kept in a secret place. But Rawdon flung open boxes 
and wardrobes, throwing the multifarious trumper}^ of their contents 
here and there, and at last he found the desk. The woman was 
forced to open it. It contained papers, love-letters many years old 
— all sorts of small trinkets and woman's memoranda. And it 
contained a pocket-book with bank-notes. Some of these were 
dated ten years back, too, and one was quite a fresh one — a note 
for a thousand pounds which Lord Steyne had given her. 

" Did he give you this ? " Rawdon said. 

" Yes," Rebecca answered. 

"I'll send it to him to-day," Rawdon said (for day had dawned 
again, and many hours had passed in this search), " and I will pay 
Briggs, who was kind to the bo}^, and some of the debts. You will 
let me know where I shall send the rest to you. You might have 
spared me a hundred pounds, Becky, out of all this — I have always 
shared with you." 

" I am innocent," said Becky. And he left her without another 
word. 

What were her thoughts when he left her ? She remained for 
hours after he was gone, the sunshine pouring into the rcom, and 
Rebecca sitting alone on the bed's edge. The drawers were all 
opened and their contents scattered about — drc-s^es and feathers, 
scarfs and trinkets, a heap of tumbled vanities lying in a wreck. 
Her hair was falling over her shoulders; her gown was trn 
where Rawdon had wrenched the brilliants out of it. She heard 
38 



594 VANITY FAIR. 

him go down stairs a few minutes after he left her, and the door 
slamming and closing on him. She knew he would never come 
back. He was gone forever. Would he kill himself ? — she thought 
— not until after he had met Lord Steyne. She thought of her 
long past life, and all the dismal incidents of it. Ah, how dreary 
it seemed, how miserable, lonely and profitless ! Should she take 
laudanum, and end it too — have done with all hopes, schemes, 
debts, and triumphs .'* The French maid found her in this position 
— sitting in the midst of her miserable ruins with clasped hands 
and dry eyes. The woman was her accomplice and in Steyne's 
pay. " Mon Dieu, madame, what has happened } " she asked. 

What had happened ? Was she guilty or not ? She said not ; 
but who could tell what was truth which came from those lips ; or 
if that corrupt heart was in this case pure ? All her lies and her 
schemes, all her selfishness and her wiles, all her wit and genius 
had come to this bankruptcy. The woman closed the curtains, 
and with some entreaty and show of kindness persuaded her mis- 
tress to lie down on the bed. Then she went below and gathered 
up the trinkets which had been lying on the floor since Rebecca 
dropped them there, at her husband's orders, and Lord Steyne 
went away. 



SUNDA V AFTER THE BA TTLE. 



595 



CHAPTER LIV. 



SUNDAY AFTER THE BATTLE. 



HE mansion of Sir Pitt 
Crawley, in Great Gaunt 
Street, was just beginning 
to dress itself for the day, 
as Rawdon, in his evening 
costume, which he had 
now worn two days, passed 
by the scared female who 
was scouring the steps, 
and entered into his 
brother's study. Lady 
Jane in her morning gown 
was up and above stairs 
in the nurser}^ superin- 
tending the toilets of her 
children, and Hstening to 
the morning prayers which 
the little creatures per- 
formed at her knee. 
Ever}^ morning she and 
they performed this duty 
privately, and before the 
public ceremonial at which Sir Pitt presided, and at which all the 
people of the household were expected to assemble. Rawdon sat 
down in the study before the baronet's table, set out with the orderly 
blue books and the letters, the neatly docketed bills and sym- 
metrical pamphlets ; the locked account-books, desks, and dis- 
patch boxes, the Bible, the Quarterly Review^ and the Court Guide^ 
which all stood as if on parade awaiting inspection of their 
chief. 

A book of family sermons, one of which Sir Pitt was in the habit 
of administering to his family on Sunday mornings, lay ready on 
the study table, and awaiting his judicious selection. And by the 
sermon-book was the 6^^j'.?rz'd'rnewspaper, damp and neatl}^ folded, 
and for Sir Pitt's own private use. His gentleman alone took the 
opportunity of perusing the newspaper before he laid it by his 




596 VANITY FAIR, 

master's desk. Before he had brought it into the study that morn, 
ing he had read in the journal a flaming account of " Festivities 
at Gaunt House," with the names of all the distinguished person- 
ages im-ited by the Marquis of Steyne to meet his royal highness. 
Having made comments upon this entertainment to the housekeeper 
and her niece as they were taking early tea and hot buttered toast 
in the former lady's apartment and wondered how the Rawding 
Crawleys could git on, the valet had damped and folded the paper 
once more, so that it looked quite fresh and innocent against the 
arrival of the master of the house. 

Poor Rawdon took up the paper and began to try and read it 
until his brother should arrive. But the print fell blank upon his 
eyes, and he did not know in the least what he was reading. The 
government news and appointments (which Sir Pitt as a public 
man was bound to peruse, otherwise he would by no means per- 
mit the introduction of Sunday papers into his household), the 
theatrical criticisms, the fight for a hundred pounds a side between 
the Barking Butcher and the Tutbury Pet, the Gaunt House 
chronicle itself, which contained a most complimentar}' though 
guarded account of the famous charades of which Mrs. Becky had 
been the heroine — all these passed as in a haze before Rawdon, 
as he sat waiting the arrival of the chief of the family. 

Punctually, as the shrill-toned bell of the black marble study- 
clock began to chime nine, Sir Pitt made his appearance, fresh, 
neat, smugly shaved, with a waxy clean face and stiff shirt-collar, 
his scanty hair combed and oiled, trimming his nails as he descend- 
ed the stairs majestically, in a starched cravat, and a gray flannel 
dressing-gown — a real old English gentleman, in a word — a model 
of neatness and every propriety. He started when he saw poor 
Rawdon in his study in tumbled clothes, with bloodshot eyes, and 
his hair over his face. He thought his brother was not sober, and 
had been out all night on some org}\ " Good gracious, Raw- 
don ! " he said, with a blank face, " what brings you here at this 
time of the morning ! Why ain't you at home ? " 

" Home," said Rawdon, with a wild laugh. " Don't be fright- 
ened, Pitt. I'm not drunk. Shut the door ; I want to speak to you." 

Pitt closed the door and came up to the table, where he sat 
down in the other arm-chair — that one placed for the reception of 
the stew^ard, agent, or confidential visitor who came to transact 
business with the baronet — and trimmed his nails more vehemently 
than ever. 

" Pitt, it's all over with me," the colonel said, after a pause. 
" I'm done." 

" I always said it would come to this," the baronet cried peevishly, 
and beating a tune with his clean-trimmed nails. " I warned you 



598 VANTTY FAIR. 

a thousand times. I can't help you any more. Every shilHng of 
my money is tied up. Even the hundred pounds that Jane took 
you last night was promised to my lawyer to-morrow morning ; 
and the want of it will put me to great inconvenience. I don't 
mean to say that I won't assist you ultimately. But as for paying 
your creditors in full, I might as well hope to pay the national 
debt. It is madness, sheer madness to think of such a thing. 
You must come to a compromise. It's a painful thing for the 
family ; but everybody does it. There was George Kitely, Lord 
Ragland's son, went through the court last week, and was what 
they call whitewsrhed, I believe. Lord Ragland would not pay a 
shilling for him, and " 

" It's not money I want," Rawdon broke in. " I'm not come to 
you about myself. Never mind what happens to me " 

" What is the matter, then ? " said Pitt, somewhat relieved. 

" It's the boy," said Rawdon, in a husky voice. " I want you 
to promise me that you will take charge of him when I'm gone. 
That dear good wife of yours has always been good to him ; and 
he's fonder of her than he is of his . . . — Damn it. Look here 
Pitt — You know that I was to have had Miss Crawley's money. 
I wasn't brought up like a younger brother ; but was always 
encouraged to be extravagant and kept idle. But for this I might 
have been quite a different man. I didn't do my duty with the 
regiment so bad. You know how I was thrown over about the 
inoney, and who got it." 

" After the sacrifices I have made, and the manner in which I 
have stood by you, I think this sort of reproach is useless," Sir 
Pitt said. " Your marriage was your own doing, not mine." 

" That's over now," said Rawdon — *' That's over now." And 
the words were wrenched from him with a groan, which made his 
brother start. 

" Good God ! is she dead ? " Sir Pitt said, with a voice of genu- 
ine alarm and commiseration. 

" I wish /was," Rawdon replied. " If it wasn't for little Raw- 
don I'd have cut my throat this morning — and that damned vil- 
lain's too." 

Sir Pitt instantly guessed the truth, and surmised that Lord 
Steyne was the person whose life Rawdon wished to take. The 
colonel told his senior briefly, and in broken accents, the circum- 
stances of the case. " It was a regular plan between that scoun- 
drel and her," he said. " The bailiffs were put upon me : I was 
taken as I was going out of his house ; when I wrote to her for 
money, she said she was ill in bed, and put me off to another day. 
And when I got home I found her in diamonds and sitting with 
that villain alone." He then went on to describe hurriedly the 



SUXDA Y AFTER THE BA TTLE. 599 

personal conflict with Lord Steyne. To an affair of that nature, 
of course, he said, there was but one issue ; and after his confer- 
ence with his brother, he was going away to make the necessary 
arrangements for the meeting which must ensue. " And as it may 
end fatally with me."' Rawdon said with a broken voice, " and as 
the boy has no mother. I must leave him to you and Jane, Pitt — 
only it will be a comfort to me if you will promise me to be his 
friend." 

The elder brother was much affected, and shook Rawdon's 
hand with a cordiality seldom exhibited by him. Rawdon passed 
his hand over his shagg}* eyebrows. " Thank you, brother," said 
^e. " I know I can trust your word." 

" I will, upon my honor," the baronet said. And thus, and almost 
mutely, this bargain was struck between them. 

Then Rawdon took out of his pocket the little pocketbook 
which he had discovered in Beck^-'s desk ; and from which he drew 
a bundle of the notes which it contained. " Here's six hundred," 
he said — " you didn't know I was so rich. I want you to give the 
money to Briggs, who lent it to us — and who was kind to the boy 
— and I've always felt ashamed of having taken the poor old 
woman's money. And here's some more — I have only kept back a 
few pounds — which Becky may as well have to get on with." As 
he spoke he took hold of the other notes to give to his brother ; 
but his hands shook, and he was so agitated that the pocketbook 
fell from him, and out of it the thousand-pound note which had 
been the last of the unlucky Becky's winnings. 

Pitt stooped and picked them up, amazed at so much wealth. 
" Not that," Rawdon said. " I hope to put a bullet into the man 
whom that belongs to." He had thought to himself it would be a 
tine revenge to wrap a ball in the note and kill Steyne with it. 

After this colloquy the brothers once more shook hands and 
parted. Lady Jane had heard of the colonel's arrival and was wait- 
ing for her husband in the adjoining dining-room with female in- 
stinct, auguring evil. The door of the dining-room happened to be 
left open, and the lady of course was issuing from it as the two 
brothers passed out of the study. She held out her hand to Raw- 
don, and said she was glad he was come to breakfast ; though she 
could perceive by his haggard, unshorn face, and the dark looks 
of her husband, that there was ver}- little question of breakfast 
between them. Rawdon muttered some excuses about an engage- 
ment, squeezing hard the timid little hand which his sister-in-law 
reached out to him. Her imploring eyes could read nothing but 
calamity in his face ; but he went away without another word. 
Nor did Sir Pitt vouchsafe her any explanation. The children 
came up to salute him and he kissed them in his usual frigid man- 



6oo VAiVITY FAIR. 

ner. The mother took both of them close to herself, and held a 
hand of each of them as they knelt down to prayers, which Sir 
Pitt read to them, and to the servants in their Sunday suits or liv- 
eries, ranged upon chairs on the other side of the hissing tea-urn. 
Breakfast was so late that day in consequence of the delays which 
had occurred, that the church-bells began to ring while they were 
sitting over their meal ; and Lady Jane was too ill, she said, to go 
to church, though her thoughts had been entirely astray during 
the period of family devotion. 

Rawdon Crawley meanwhile hurried on from Great Gaunt Street, 
and, knocking at the great bronze Medusa's head which stands on 
the portal of Gaunt House, brought out the purple Silenus in a 
red and silver waistcoat, who acts as porter of that palace. The 
man was scared also by the colonel's disheveled appearance, and 
barred the way as if afraid that the other was going to force. But 
Colonel Crawley only took out a card and enjoined him particu- 
larly to send it to Lord Steyne, and to mark the address written 
on it, and say that Colonel Crawley would be all day after one 
o'clock at the Regent Club in St. James Street — not at home. 
The fat, red-faced man looked after him with astonishment as he 
strode away ; so did the people in their Sunday clothes, who were 
out so early ; the charity boys with shining faces, the greengrocer 
lolling at his door, and the publican shutting his shutters in the 
sunshine, against service commenced. The people joked at the 
cab-stand about his appearance, as he took a carriage there, and 
told the driver to take him to Knightsbridge Barracks. 

AH the bells were jangling and tolling as he reached that place. 
He might have seen his old acquaintance Amelia, on her way from 
Brompton to Russell Square, had he been looking out. Troops of 
schools were on their march to church ; the shiny pavement and 
outsides of coaches in the suburbs were thronged with people out 
upon their Sunday pleasure. But the colonel was much too busy 
to take any heed of these phenomena, and, arriving at Knights- 
bridge, speedily made his way up to the room of his old friend 
and comrade, Captain Macmurdo, who, Crawley found, to his sat- 
isfaction, was in barracks. 

Captain Macmurdo, a veteran officer and Waterloo man, greatly 
liked by his regiment, in which want of money alone prevented him 
from attaining the highest ranks, was enjoying the forenoon calmly 
in bed. He had been at a fast supper-party% given the night 
before by Captain the Honorable George Cinqbars, at his house 
in Brompton Square, to several young men of the regiment, and a 
number of ladies of the corps de ballet, and old Mac, who was 
at home with people of all ages and ranks, and consorted with 
generals, dog-fanciers, opera-dancers, bruisers, and every kind of 



SUNDA Y AFTER THE BA TTLE. 



601 



person, in a word, was resting himself after the night's labors, and, 
not being on duty, was in bed. 

His room was hung round with boxing, sporting, and dancing 
pictures, presented to him by comrades as they retired from the 
regiment, and married and settled into quiet hfe. And as he was 
now nearly fifty years of age, twenty-four of which he had passed 




in the corps, he had a singular museum. He was one of the best 
shots in England, and, for a heavy man, one of the best riders ; 
indeed he and Crawley had been rivals when the latter was in the 
army. To be brief, Mr. Macmurdo was lying in bed, reading in 
BelVs Life an account of that very fight between the Tutbury Pe< 



6o2 VANITY FAIR. 

and the Barking Butcher, which has been before mentioned — a 
venerable bristly ^varrior, with a little close-shaved gray head, 
with a silk nightcap, a red face and nose, and a great dyed 
mustache. 

When Rawdon told the captain he wanted a friend, the latter 
knew perfectly well on what duty of friendship he was called to 
act, and indeed had conducted scores of affairs for his acquaint- 
ances with the greatest prudence and skill. His royal highness 
the late lamented commander-in-chief had had the greatest regard 
for Macmurdo on this account ; and he was the common refuge of 
gentlemen in trouble. 

"What's the row about, Crawley, my boy.?" said the old war- 
rior. " No more gambling business, hay, like that when we shot 
Captain Marker ? " 

" It's about — about my wife," Crawley answered, casting down 
his eyes and turning very red. 

The other gave a whistle. " I always said she'd throw you 
over," he began — indeed there were bets in the regiment and at 
the clubs regarding the probable fate of Colonel Crawley, so 
lightly was his wife's character esteemed by his comrades and the 
world ; but seeing the savage look with which Rawdon answered 
the expression of this opinion, Macmurdo did not think fit to 
enlarge upon it further. 

" Is there no way out of it, old boy ? " the captain continued, in 
a grave tone. " Is it only susjDicion, you know, or — or what is it .'' 
Any letters ? Can't you keep it quiet t Best not make any noise 
about a thing of that sort if you can help it." " Think of his only 
finding her out now," the captain thought to himself, and remem- 
bered a hundred particular conversations at the mess-table, in 
which Mrs. Crawley's reputation had been torn to shreds. 

"There's no way but one out of it," Rawdon replied — " and 
there's only a way out of it for one of us, Mac — do you under- 
stand ? I was put out of the way ; arrested ; I found 'em alone, 
together. I told him he was a liar and a coward, and knocked 
him down and thrashed him," 

" Served him right," Macmurdo said. "Who is it ? " 

Rawdon answered it was Lord Steyne. 

" The deuce ! a marquis ! they said he — that is, they said 



" vVhat the devil do you mean ? " roared out Rawdon ; " do you 
mean that you ever heard a fellow doubt about my wife, and didn't 
tell me, Mac ? " 

" The world's ver}^ censorious, old boy," the other replied. 
" What the deuce was the good of my telling you what any tom- 
fools talked about ? '" 



SUNDAY AFTER THE BATTLE. 603 

'' It was damned unfriendly, Mac," said Rawdon, quite over- 
come ; and covering his face with his hands, he gave way to an 
emotion, the sight of which caused the tough old campaigner oppo- 
site him to wince with sympathy. " Hold up, old boy," he said ; 
" great man or not, we'll put a bullet in him, damn him. As for 
women, they're all so." 

" You don't know how fond I was of that one," Rawdon said, 
half inarticulately. " Damme I followed her like a footman. I 
gave up everything I had to her. I'm a beggar because I would 
marry her. By Jove, sir, I've pawned my own watch in order to 
get her anything she fancied ; and she — she's been making a purse 
for herself all the time, and grudged me a hundred pound to get 
out of quod." He then fiercely and incoherently, and with an 
agitation under which his counselor had never before seen him 
labor, told Macmurdo the circumstances of the stor}^ His 
adviser caught at some stray hints in it. 

" She may be innocent after all," he said. " She says so. 
Steyne has been a hundred times alone with her in the house 
before." 

" It may be so," Rawdon answered sadly ; "but this don't look 
very innocent ; and he showed the captain the thousand-pound 
note which he had found in Becky's pocketbook. " This is what 
he gave her, Mac ; and she kept it unknown to me ; and with this 
money in the house, she refused to stand by me when I was 
locked up." The captain could not but own that the secreting of 
the money had a very ugly look. 

While they were engaged in their conference Rawdon dispatched 
Captain Macmurdo's servant to Curzon Street, with an order to 
the domestic there to give up a bag of clothes of which the colonel 
had great need. And during the man's absence, and with great 
labor and a Johnson's Dictionary, which stood them in much stead, 
Rawdon and his second composed a letter, which the latter was to 
send to Lord Steyne. Captain Macmurdo had the honor of wait- 
ing upon the Marquis of Steyne, on the part of Colonel Rawdon 
Crawley, and begged to intimate that he was empowered by the 
colonel to make any arrangements for the meeting which, he had no 
doubt, it was his lordship's intention to demand, and which the 
circumstances of the morning had rendered inevitable. Captain 
Macmurdo begged Lord Steyne, in the most polite manner, to 
appoint a friend, with whom he (Captain M.M.) might communi- 
cate, and desired that the meeting might take place with as little 
delay as possible. 

In a postscript the captain stated that he had in his possession a 
banknote for a large amount, which Colonel Crawley had 
reason to suppose was the property of the Marquis of Steyne, 



6o4 VAXITY FAIR. 

And he was anxious, on the colonel's behalf, to give up the note 
to its owner. 

By the time this note was composed, the captain's servant 
returned from his mission to Colonel Crawley's house in Curzon 
Street, but without the carpet-bag and portmanteau for which he 
had been sent ; and with a very puzzled and odd face. 

" They won't give 'em up," said the man ; " there's a regular 
shinty in the house ; and everything at sixes and sevens. The 
landlord's come in and took possession. The servants was a 
drinkin' up in the drawing-room. They said — they said you had 
gone off with the plate, colonel " — the man added after a pause ; — 
" One of the servants is off already. And Simpson, the man as 
was very noisy, and drunk indeed, says nothing shall go out of the 
house till his wages is paid up." 

The account of this little revolution in May Fair astonished and 
gave a little gayety to an otherwise very tj-iste conversation. The 
two officers laughed at Rawdon's discomfiture. 

" I'm glad the little 'un isn't at home," Rawdon said, biting his 
nails. " You remember him, Mac, don't you, in the riding-school ? 
How he sat the kicker to be sure ! Didn't he ? " 

" That he did, old boy," said the good-natured captain. 

Little Rawdon was then sitting, one of fifty grown boys, in the 
chapel of Whitefriars School ; thinking, not about the sermon, but 
about going home next Saturday, when his father would certainly 
tip him, and perhaps would take him to the play. 

" He's a regular trump, that boy," the father went on, still 
musing about his son. " I say, Mac, if anything goes wrong — if I 
drop — I should like you to — to go and see him, you know ; and 
say that I was very fond of him, and that. And — dash it — old 
chap, give him these gold sleeve-buttons ; it's all I've got.'' He 
covered his face with his black hands ; over which the tears rolled 
and made furrows of white. ^^Ir. Macmurdo had also occasion to 
take off his silk night-cap and rub it across his e^-es. 

" Go down and order some breakfast," he said to his man in a 
loud cheerful voice. " What'll you have, Crawley ? Some deviled 
kidneys and a herring — let's say. — And, Clay, lay out some dressing 
things for the colonel ; we were always pretty much of a size, 
Rawdon, my boy, and neither of us' ride so light as we did when 
we first entered the corps." With which, and leaving the colonel 
to dress himself, Macmurdo turned round toward the wall, and 
resumed the perusal of Bell's Life, until such time as his friend's 
toilet was complete, and he was at liberty to commence his own. 

This, as he was about to meet a lord. Captain Macmurdo per- 
^orrrked with particular care. He waxed his mustachios into a state 
of brilliant polish, and put on a tight cravat and a trim buff waist' 



SUNDA V AFTER THE BA l^TLE. 60 5 

coat ; so that all the young officers in the mess-room, whither 
Crawley had preceded his friend, complimented Mac on his 
appearance at breakfast, and asked if he was going to be married 
that Sundai^. 



ek)6 



VANITY FAIR 



CHAPTER LV. 



'/ 



IN WHICH THE SAME SUBJECT IS PURSUED. 

ECKY did not rally from 
the state of stupor and 
confusion in which the 
events of the previous 
night had plunged her in- 
trepid spirit, until the bells 
of the Curzon Street 
chapels were ringing for 
afternoon service, and 
rising from her bed, she 
began to ply her own 
bell, in order to summon 
the French maid who had 
left her some hours be- 
fore. 

Mrs. Rawdon Crawley 
rang many times in vain ; 
and though, on the last 
occasion, she rang with 
such vehemence as to pull 
down the bell-rope, Made- 
moiselle Fifine did not make her appearance — no, not though her 
mistress, in a great pet, and with the bell-rope in her hand, came 
out to the landing-place with her hair over her shoulders, and 
screamed out repeatedly for her attendant. 

The truth is, she had quitted the premises for many hours, and 
upon that permission which is called French leave among us. 
After packing up the trinkets in the drawing-room, mademoiselle 
had ascended to her own apartments, packed and corded her own 
boxes there, tripped out and called a cab for' herself, brought 
down her trunks with her own hand, and without ever so much as 
asking the aid of any of- the other serA^ants, who would probably 
have refused it, as they hated her cordially, and without wishing 
any one of them good-b}*, had made her exit from Curzon Street. 

The game, in her opinion, was over in that little domestic 
establishment. Fifine went off in a cab, as we have known more 




SAME SUBJEECT IS PUR SLED. ' 607 

exalted persons of her nation to do under similar circumstances ; 
but more provident or lucky than these, she secured not only her 
propert)^, but some of her mistress's (if indeed that lady could be 
said to have any property at all) — and not only carried off the 
trinkets before alluded to, and some favorite dresses on which she 
had long kept her eye, but four richly gilt Louis-Quatorze candle- 
sticks, six gilt albums, keepsakes, and books of beauty, a gold 
enameled snuff-box which had once belonged to Madame du 
Barri, and the sweetest little ink-stand and mother-of-pearl blot- 
ting-book, which Becky used when she composed her charming 
little pink notes, had vanished from the premises in Curzon Street 
together with Mademoiselle Fifine, and all the silver laid on the 
table for the little /es^m which Rawdon interrupted. The plated 
w^are mademoiselle left behind her as too cumbrous, probably, for 
which reason, no doubt, she also left the fire-irons, the chimney- 
glasses, and the rosewood cottage piano. 

A lady very like her subsequently kept a milliner's shop in the 
Rue du Helder at Paris, where she lived with great credit, and 
enjoyed the patronage of my Lord Steyne. This person always 
spoke of England as the most treacherous country in the world, 
and stated to her young pupils that she had been affreuseme?it vole 
by natives of that island. It was no doubt compassion for her 
misfortunes which induced the Marquis of Steyne to be so very 
kind to Madame de Saint Amaranthe. May she flourish as she 
deserves ! She appears no more in our quarter of Vanity Fair. 

Hearing a buzz and a stir below, and indignant at the impu- 
dence of those servants, who would not answer her summons, Mrs. 
Crawley flung her morning-robe round her, and descended majes- 
tically to the drawing-room, whence the noise proceeded. 

The cook was there with blackened face, seated on the beautiful 
chintz sofa by the side of Mrs. Raggles, to whom she was admin- 
istering maraschino. The page with the sugar-loaf buttons, who 
carried about Becky's notes, and jumped about her little carriage 
with such alacrity, was now engaged putting his fingers into" a 
cream dish ; the footman was talking to Raggles, who had a face 
full of perplexity and woe — and yet, though the door was open, 
and Becky had been screaming a half a dozen of times a few feet 
off, not one of her attendants had obeyed her call. " Have a 
little drop, do'ee, now, Mrs. Raggles," the cook was saying as 
Becky entered, the white dressing-gown flouncing around her. 

" Simpson ! Trotter ! " the mistress of the house cried in great 
wrath. " How dare you stay here when you heard me call ? How 
dare you sit down in my presence ? Where's my maid ? " The 
page withdrew his fingers from his mouth with a momentar}^ terror • 
but the cook took off a glass of Maraschino, of which Mrs. Raggles 



6o8 ■ VANITY FAIR. 

had had enough, staring at Becky over the little gilt glass as she 
drained its contents. The liquor appeared to give the odious rebel 
courage. 

" Your sofy, indeed ! " Mrs. Cook said. "I'm a settin' on Mrs. 
Raggles's sofy. Don't you stir, Mrs. Raggles, mum. I'm a set- 
tin' on Mr. and Mrs. Raggles's sofy, which they bought with hon- 
est money, and very dear it cost 'em, too. And I'm thinkin' if I 
set here until I'm paid my wages, I shall set a precious long time, 
Mrs. Raggles ; and set I will, too — ha ! ha ! " and with this she filled 
herself another glass of the liquor, and drank it with a more hide- 
ously satirical air. 

"Trotter! Simpson! turn that drunken wretch out," screamed 
Mrs. Crawley. 

" I shawn't," said Trotter, the footman ; " turn her out yourself. 
pay our selleries and turn me out, too. We'll go fast enough." 

" Are you all here to insult me ? " cried Becky in a fury ; " when 
Colonel Crawley comes home I'll " 

At this the servants burst into a hoarse haw-haw, in which, how- 
ever, Raggles, who still kept a most melancholy countenance, did 
not join. "He ain't a coming back," Mr. Trotter resumed. "He 
sent for his things, and I wouldn't let 'em go, although Mr. Rag- 
gles would ; and I don't b'lieve he's no more colonel than I am. 
He's hoif ; and I suppose you're a goin' after him. You're no better 
than swindlers, both on you. Don't be a bullyin' me. I won't 
stand it. Pay us our selleries, I say. Pay us our selleries." It 
was evident from Mr. Trotter's flushed countenance and defective, 
intonation that he, too, had had recourse to vinous stimulus. 

"Mr. Raggles," said Becky, in a passion of vexation, "you will 
not surely let me be insulted by that drunken man ? " " Hold your 
noise. Trotter ; do now," said Simpson the page. He was affected 
by his mistress's deplorable situation, and succeeded in prevent- 
ing an outrageous denial of the epithet " drunken " on the foot- 
man's part. 

" O mam," said Raggles, " I never thought to live to see this 
year day. I've known the Crawley family ever since I was born. 
I lived butler with Miss Crawley for thirty years; and I little 
thought one of that family was a goin' to ruing me — yes, ruing me " 
— said the poor fellow with tears in his eyes. " Har you a goin' to 
pay me ? You've lived in this 'ouse four year. You've 'ad my 
substance ; my plate and linning. You ho me a milk and butter 
bill of two 'undred pound, you must 'ave noo laid heggs for your 
homlets, and cream for your spanil dog." 

" She didn't care what her flesh and blood had," interposed the 
cook. " Many's the time he'd have starved but for me." 

" He's a charity boy now, cooky," said Mr. Trotter, with a drunk- 




Photo by Byron 



SAME SUBJECT IS PURSUED. 609 

en " ha ! ha ! " — and honest Raggies continued, in a lamentable 
tone, an enumeration of his griefs. All he said was true. Becky 
and her husband had ruired him. He had bills coming due next 
week and no means lo meet them. He would be sold up and turned 
out of his shop and his house, because he had trusted to the 
Crawley family. His tears and lamentations made Becky more 
peevish than ever. 

"You all seem to be against me," she said, bitterly. "What do 
you want ? I can't pay you on Sunday. Come back to-morrow 
and I'll pay you ever}thing. I thought Colonel Crawley had set- 
tled with you. He will to-morrow. I declare to you upon my honor 
that he left this morning with fifteen hundred pounds in his 
pocketbook. He has left me nothing. Apply to him. Give me a 
bonnet and shawl and let me go out and find him. There was a 
difference between us this morning. You all seem to know it. I 
promise you upon my word that you shall all be paid. He has got 
a good appointment. Let me out and find him." 

This audacious statement caused Raggies and the other person- 
ages present to look at one another with a wild surprise, and with 
it Rebecca left them. She went up stairs and dressed herself, this 
time without the aid of her French maid. She went into Rawdon's 
room and there saw that a trunk and bag were packed ready for 
removal with a pencil direction that they should be given when called 
for ; then she went into the Frenchwoman's garret ; everything was 
clean, and all the drawers emptied there. She bethought herself 
of the trinkets which had been left on the ground, and felt certain 
that the woman had fled. "Good heavens! was ever such ill-luck 
as mine ? " she said, " to be so near, and to lose all. Is it all too late ? 
No ; there was one chance more." 

She dressed herself, and went away unmolested this time, but 
alone. It was four o'clock. She went swiftly down the streets 
(she had no money to pay for a carriage), and never stopped until 
she came to Sir Pitt Crawley's door, in Great Gaunt Street. Where 
was Lady Jane Crawley.^ She was at church. Becky was not 
sorr}\ Sir Pitt was in his study, and had given orders not to be 
disturbed — she must see him — she slipped by the sentinel in livery 
at once, and was in Sir Pitt's room before the astonished baronet 
had even laid down the paper. 

He turned red and started back fromi her with a look of great 
alarm and horror. 

" Do not look so," she said. " I am not guilty Pitt, dear Pitt ; 
you were my friend once. Before God, I am not guilty. I seem 
so. Everything is against me. And Oh ! at such a moment ! just 
when all my hopes were about to be realized ; just when happiness 
was in store for us." 
.^9 



6io 



VAXITY FAIR. 



'^ Is this true, what I see in the paper, then ? " Sir Pitt said — a 
paragraph in which had greatly surprised him. 

" It is true. Lord Steyne told me on Friday night, the night 
of that fatal ball. He has been promised an appointment any time 
these six months. Mr. Martyr, the colonial secretary, told him yes- 
terday that it was made out. That unlucky arrest ensued ; that 
horrible meeting. I was only guilty of too much devotedness to 
Rawdon's service. I have received Lord Steyne alone a hundred 
times before. I confess I had money of which Rawdon knew noth- 




ing. Don't you know how careless he is of it, and could I dare to 
confide it to him 1 " And so she went on with a perfectly connect- 
ed story, which she poured into the ears of her perplexed kinsman. 
It was to the following effect. Becky owned, and with perfect 
frankness, but deep contrition, that having remarked Lord Steyne's 
partiality for her (at the mention of which Pitt blushed), and being 
secure of her virtue, she had determined to turn the great peer's 
attachment to the advantage of herself and her family. " I looked 
for a peerage for you, Pitt," she said (the brother-in-law again turn- 



SAME SUBJECT IS PURSUED. 6n 

ed red). " We have talked about it. Your genius and Lord 
Steyne's interest made it more than probable, had not this dreadful 
calamity come to put an end to all our hopes. But, first, I own 
that it was my object to rescue my dear husband — him whom I 
love in spite of all his ill-usage and suspicions of me — to remove 
him from the poverty and ruin which was impending over us. I 
saw Lord Steyne's partiality for me," she said, casting down her 
eyes. " I own that I did ever} thing in my power to make myself 
pleasing to him, and as far as an honest woman may, to secure his 
— his esteem. It was only on Friday morning that the news ar- 
rived of the death of the Governor of Coventry Island, and my 
lord instantly secured the appointment for my dear husband. It was 
intended as a surprise for him — he was to see it in the papers to- 
day. Even after that horrid arrest took place (the expenses of 
which Lord Steyne generously said he would settle, so that I was 
in a manner prevented from coming to my husband's assistance), 
my lord was laughing with me, and saying that my dearest Rawdon 
would be consoled when he read his appointment in the paper, in 
that shocking spon — bailiff's house. And then — then he came 
home. His suspicions were excited — the dreadful scene took place 
between my lord and my cruel, cruel Rawdon — and, O my God, 
what will happen next ? Pitt, dear Pitt ! pity me, and reconcile 
us ! " And as she spoke she flung herself down on her knees and 
bursting into tears seized hold of Pitt's hand which she kissed pas- 
sionately. 

It was in this very attitude that Lady Jane, who, returning from 
church, ran to her husband's room directly she heard Mrs. Rawdon 
Crawley was closeted there, found the baronet and his sister-in-law. 

" I am surprised that woman has the audacity to enter this 
house," Lady Jane said, trembling in every limb, and turning quite 
pale. (Her ladyship had sent out her maid directly after break- 
fast, who had communicated with Raggles and Rawdon Crawley's 
household, who had told her all, and a great deal more than they 
knew, of that story, and many others beside.) " How dare Mrs. 
Crawley to enter the house of — of an honest family ? " 

Sir Pitt started back, amazed at his v/ife's display of vigor. 
Becky still kept her kneeling posture, and clung to Sir Pitt's 
hand. 

" Tell her that she does not know all. Tell her that I am 
innocent, dear Pitt," she whimpered out. 

" Upon my word, my love, I think you do Mrs. Crawley in- 
justice," Sir Pitt said ; at which speech Rebecca was vastly relieved. 
" Indeed, I believe her to be " 

"To be what.? " cried out Lady Jane, her clear voice thrilling, 
and her heart beating violently as she spoke. " To be a wicked 



6i2 VANITY FAIR. 

woman — a heartless mother, a false wife ? She never loved her 
dear little boy, who used to fly here and tell me of her cruelty to 
him. She never came into a family but she strove to bring misery 
with her, and to weaken the most sacred affections with her wicked 
flattery and falsehoods. She has deceived her husband, as she has 
deceived everybody ; her soul is black with vanity, worldliness, 
and all sorts of crime. I tremble when I touch her. I keep my 
children out of her sight. I " 

" Lady Jane ! " cried Sir Pitt, starting up. " This is really 
language " 

" I have been a true and faithful wife to you. Sir Pitt," Lady 
Jane continued, intrepidly ; " I have kept my marriage vow as I 
made it to God, and have been obedient and gentle as a wife 
should. But righteous obedience has its limits, and I declare 
that I will not bear that — that woman again under my roof ; if she 
enters it, I and my children will leave it. She is not worthy to 
sit down with Christian people. You — you must choose, sir, be- 
tween her and me ; " and with this my lady swept out of the room, 
fluttering with her own audacity, and leaving Rebecca and Sir Pitt 
not a little astonished at it. 

As for Becky, she was not hurt ; nay, she was pleased. " It 
was the diamond-clasp you gave me," she said to Sir Pitt, reaching 
him out her hand ; and before she left him (for which event 
you may be sure my Lady Jane was looking out from her dressing- 
room window in the upper story) the baronet had promised to go 
and seek out his brother, and endeavor to bring about a reconcili- 
ation. 

Rawdon found some of the young fellows of the regiment seated 
in the mess-room at breakfast, and was induced without much diffi- 
culty to partake of that meal, and of the deviled legs of fowls and 
soda water with which these young gentlemen fortified them- 
selves. Then they had a conversation befitting the day and their 
time of life ; about the next pigeon-match at Battersea, with relative 
bets upon Ross and Osbaldiston ; about Mademoiselle Ariane of 
the French opera, and who had left her, and how she was consoled 
by Panther Carr ; and about the fight between the Butcher and 
the Pet, and the probabilities that it was a cross. Young Tandy- 
man, a hero of seventeen, laboriously endeavoring to get up a pair 
of mustachios, had seen the fight, and spoke in the most scientific 
manner about the battle, and the condition of the men. It was he 
who had driven the Butcher on to the ground in his drag, and 
passed the whole of the previous night with him. Had there not 
been foul play he must have won it. All the old files of the ring 
were in it ; and Tandyman wouldn't pay : no, dammy, he wouldn't 



SAME SUBJECT IS PURSUED 613 

pay, — It was but a year since the young cornet, now so knowing a 
hand in Cribb's parlor, had a still lingering liking for toffy, and 
used to be birched at Eton. 

So they went on talking about dancers, fights, drinking, demi- 
reps, until Macmurdo came down and joined the boys and the con- 
versation. He did not appear to think that any especial reverence 
was due to their boyhood ; the old fellow cut in with stories, to the 
full as choice as any the youngest rake present had to tell ; — nor 
did his own gray hairs nor their smooth faces detain him. Old 
Mac was famous for his good stories. He was not exactly a lady's 
man ; that is, men asked him to dine rather at the houses of their 
mistresses than of their mothers. There can scarcely be a life 
lower, perhaps, than his ; but he was quite contented with it, such 
as it was, and led it in perfect good nature, simplicity, and modesty 
of demeanor. 

By the time Mac had finished a copious breakfast, most of the 
others had concluded their meal. Young Lord Varinas was 
smoking an immense meerschaum pipe, while Captain Hugues 
was employed with a cigar ; that violent little devil Tandyman, 
with his little bull-terrier between his legs, was tossing for shillings 
with all his might (that fellow was always at some game or other) 
against Captain Deuceace ; and Mac and Rawdon walked off to 
the club, neither, of course, having given any hint of the business 
which was occupying their minds. Both, on the other hand, had 
joined pretty gayly in the conversation ; for why should they in- 
terrupt it 'i Feasting, drinking, ribaldry, laughter, go on alongside 
of all sorts of other occupations in Vanity Fair — the crowds were 
pouring out of church as Rawdon and his friend passed down St. 
James's Street and entered into their club. 

The old bucks and habitues who ordinarily stand gaping and 
grinning out of the great front window of the club, had not arrived 
at their posts as yet — the newspaper-room was almost empty. 
One man was present whom Rawdon did not know ; another to 
whom he owed a little score for whist, and whom, in consequence, 
he did not care to meet ; a third was reading the Royalist') a 
periodical famous for its scandal and its attachment to church and 
king) Sunday paper at the table, and, looking up at Crawley with 
some interest, said, " Crawley, I congratulate you." 

" What do you mean ? " said the colonel. 

" It's in the Observer and the Royalist too," said Mr. Smith. 

" What ? " Rawdon cried, turning very red. He thought that 
the affair with Lord Steyne was already in the public prints. 
Smith looked up wondering and smiling at the agitation which the 
colonel exhibited as he took up the paper, and trembling began to 
read. 



6i4 " VANITY FAIR. 

Mr. Smith and Mr. Brown (the gentleman with whom Rawdon* 
had the outstanding whist account) had been talking about the: 
colonel just before he came in. 

" It is come just in the nick of time," said Smith. " I suppose- 
Crawley had not a shilling in the world." 

" It's a wind that blows everybody good," Mr. Brown said.. 
" He can't go away without paying me a pony he owes me." 

" What's the salary ? " asked Smith. 

" Two or three thousand," answered the other. " But the cli- 
mate's so infernal they don't enjoy it long. Liverseege died after 
eighteen months of it ; and the man before went off in six weeks, I 
hear." 

" Some people say his brother is a very clever man." " I always- 
found him a d bore," Smith ejaculated. " He must have good 

interest, though. He must have got the colonel the place." 

^^ He r^ said Brown, with a sneer — " Pooh. It was Lord Steyne 
got it." 

" How do you mean ? " 

" A virtuous woman is a crown to her husband," answered the 
other, enigmatically, and went on to read his papers. 

Rawdon, for his part, read in the Royalist the following aston- 
ishing paragraph : 

" Governorship OF Coventry Island. — H.M.S. Yell owjack, Commander 
Jaunders, has brought letters and papers from Coventry Island. H. E. Sir 
Thomas Liverseege had fallen a victim to the prevailing fever at Swampton. 
His loss is deeply felt in the flourishing colony. We hear that the governorship 
has been offered to Colonel Rawdon Crawley, C.B. , a distinguished Waterloo ■ 
officer. We need not only men of acknowledged bravery, but men of adminis- 
trative talents to superintend the affairs of our colonies ; and we have no doubt 
that the gentleman selected by the Colonial Office to fill the lamented vacancy 
which has occurred at Coventry Island is admirably calculated for the post 
which he is about to occupy." 

" Coventry Island ! where was it "i who had appointed him to- 
the government ? You must take me out as your secretar}^, old 
boy," Captain Macmurdo said, laughing ; and as Crawley and his 
friend sat wondering and perplexed over the announcement, the 
club waiter brought to the colonel a card, on which the name of 
Mr. Wenham was engraved, who begged to see Colonel Crawley.. 

The colonel and his aide-de-camp went out to meet the gentle- 
man, rightly conjecturing that he was an emissary of Lord Steyne.. 

" How d'ye do, Crawley ? I am glad to see you," said Mr, 
Wenham, with a bland smile, and grasping Crawley's hand witb 
great cordiality. 

" You come, I suppose, from " 

" Exactly," said Mr. Wenham. 



SAME SUBJECT IS PURSUED. 615 

" Then this is my friend Captain Macmurdo, of the Life Guards 
Green." 

" Dehghted to know Captain Macmurdo, I'm sure," Mr. Wen- 
ham said, and tendered another smile and shake of the hand to the 
second, as he had done to the principal. Mac put out one finger, 
armed with a buckskin glove, and made a very frigid bow to Mr. 
Wenham over his tight cravat. He was, perhaps, discontented at 
being put in communication with 2ipekin, and thought that Lord 
Steyne should have sent him a colonel at the very least. 

"As Macmurdo acts for me, and knows what I mean," Crawley 
said ; " I had better retire and leave you together." 

" Of course," said Macmurdo. 

" By no means, my dear colonel," Mr. Wenham said ; " the inter- 
view which I had the honor of requesting was with you personally, 
though the company of Captain Macmurdo can not fail to be also 
most pleasing. In fact, captain, I hope that our conversation will 
lead to none but the most agreeable results, very different from 
those which my friend Colonel Crawley appears to anticipate." 

" Humph ! " said Captain Macmurdo. Be hanged to these civil- 
ians, he thought to himself, they are always for arranging and 
speechifying. Mr. Wenham took a chair which was not offered to 
him — took a paper from his pocket, and resumed : 

" You have seen this gratif3dng announcement in the papers this 
morning, colonel ? Government has secured a most valuable ser- 
vant, and you, if you accept office, as I presume you will, an ex- 
cellent appointment. Three thousand a year, delightful climate, 
excellent government-house, all your own way in the colony, and a 
certain promotion. I congratulate you with all my heart. I pre- 
sume you know, gentlemen, to whom my friend is indebted for this 
place of patronage ? " 

" Hanged if I know," the captain said ; his principal turned very 
red. 

" To one of the most generous and kindest men in the world, as 
he is one of the greatest — to my excellent friend, the Marquis of 
Steyne." 

" I'll see him d before I take his place," growled out Raw- 
don. 

" You are irritated against my noble friend," Mr. Wenham calm- 
ly resumed ; " and now, in the name of common sense and justice, 
tell me why." 

" Why ? " cried Rawdon, in surprise. 

" Why ? Dammy ! " said the captain, ringing his stick on the 
ground. 

" Dam.my, indeed," said Mr. Wenham, with the most agreeable 
smile ; " still, look at the matter as a man of the world — as an hon- 



6i6 VAXITY FAIR. 

est man, and see if you have not been in the wrong. You come 
home from a journey, and find — what ? — my Lord Steyne supping 
at your house in Curzon Street with Mrs. Crawley. Is the circum- 
stance strange or novel ? Has he not been a hundred times before 
in the same position ? Upon my honor and word as a gentleman," 
(Mr. Wenham here put his hand on his waistcoat with a parlia- 
mentary air), " I declare I think that your suspicions are mon- 
strous and utterly unfounded, and that they injure an honorable 
gentleman who has proved his good-will toward you by a thousand 
benefactions — and a most spotless and innocent lady.'" 

" You don't mean to say that — that Crawley's mistaken ? " said 
Mr. Macmurdo. 

" I believe that Mrs. Crawley is as innocent as my wife, Mrs. 
Wenham," Mr. Wenham said, with great energy. " I believe that, 
misled by an infernal jealousy, my friend here strikes a blow against 
not only an infirm and old man of high station, his constant friend 
and benefactor, but against his wife, his own dearest honor, his 
son's future reputation, and his o\vn prospects in life. 

" I will tell you what happened," Mr. Wenham continued with 
great solemnity ; " I was sent for this morning by my Lord Steyne, 
and found him in a pitiable state, as, I need hardly inform Colonel 
Crawley, any man of age and infirmity would be after a personal 
conflict with a man of your strength. I say to your face ; it was a 
cruel advantage you took of that strength. Colonel Crawley. It 
was not only the body of my noble and excellent friend which was 
wounded — hi^ heart, sir, was bleeding. A man whom he had load- 
ed with benefits and regarded with affection, had subjected him to 
the foulest indignit}^ What was this ver}^ appointment, w^hich ap- 
pears in the journals of to-day, but a proof of his kindness to you } 
When I saw his lordship this morning I found him in a state piti- 
able indeed to see ; and as anxious as you are to revenge the out- 
rage committed upon him, by blood. You know he has given his 
proofs, I presume. Colonel Crawley ? " 

*' He has plent}^ of pluck," said the colonel. " Nobody ever said 
he hadn't." 

" His first order to me was to write a letter of challenge, and to 
carry it to Colonel Crawley. ' One or other of us,' he said, ' must 
not survive the outrage of last night.' " 

Crawley nodded. " You're coming to the point, Wenham," he said. 

" I tried my utmost to calm Lord Steyne. Good God, sir," I 
said, " how I regret that Mrs. Wenham and myself had not accept- 
ed Mrs. Crawley's invitation to sup with her." 

" She asked you to sup with her ? " Captain Macmurdo said. 

" After the opera. Here's the note of invitation — stop — no, this 
is another paper — I thought I had it, but it's of no consequence, 



SAME SUBJECT IS PURSUED, 617 

and I pledge 3^ou my word to the fact. If we had come — and it 
was only one of Mrs. Wenham's headaches which prevented us — 
she suffers under them a good deal, especially in the spring — if we 
had come, and you had returned home, there would have been no 
quarrel, no insult, no suspicion — and so it is positively because my 
poor wife has a headache that you are to bring death down upon 
two men of honor, and plunge two of the most excellent and an- 
cient families in the kingdom into disgrace and sorrow." 

Mr. Macmurdo looked at his principal with the air of a man 
profoundly puzzled ; and Rawdon felt with a kind of rage that his 
prey was escaping him. He did not believe a word of the story, 
and yet, how discredit or disprove it ? 

Mr. Wenham continued with the same fluent orator}^, which in 
his place in parliament he had so often practiced — " I sat for an 
hour or more by Lord Steyne's bedside, beseeching, imploring Lord 
Steyne to forego his intention of demanding a meeting. I pointed 
out to him that the circumstances were after all suspicious — they 
were suspicious. I acknowledge it — any man in your position might 
have been taken in — I said that a man furious with jealousy is to 
all intents and purposes a madman, and should be as such regarded 
— that a duel between you must lead to the disgrace of all parties 
concerned — that a man of his lordship's exalted station had no 
right in these days, when the most atrocious revolutionary principles, 
and the most dangerous leveling doctrines are preached among 
the vulgar, to create a public scandal ; and that, however innocent, 
the common people would insist that he was guilty. In fine, I 
implored him not to send the challenge." 

" I don't believe one word of the whole story," said Rawdon, 

grinding his teeth. " I believe it a d lie, and that you're in it, 

Mr. Wenham. If the challenge don't come from him, by Jove it 
shall come from me." 

Mr. Wenham turned deadly pale at this savage interruption of 
the colonel, and looked toward the door. 

But he found a champion in Captain Macmurdo. That gentle- 
man rose up with an oath, and rebuked Rawdon for his language. 
" You put the affair into my hands, and you shall act as I think fit, 
by Jove, and not as you do. You have no right to insult Mr. Wen- 
ham with this sort of language ; and dammy, Mr. Wenham, you 
deserve an apology. And as for a challenge to Lord Steyne, you 
may get somebody else to carr}' it, I won't. If my lord, after being 
thrashed, chooses to sit still, dammy, let him. And as for the affair 
with — with Mrs. Crawley, my belief is, there's nothing proved at 
all ; that your wife's innocent, as innocent as Mr. Wenham says 
she is ; and at any rate, that you would be a d — fool not to take 
the place and hold your tongue." 



6i8 VANITY FAIR. 

" Captain Macmurdo, you speak like a man of sense," Mr. Wen- 
ham cried out, immensely relieved — " I forget any words that Col- 
onel Crawley has used in the irritation of the moment." 

" I thought you would," Rawdon said, with a sneer. 

" Shut your mouth, you old stoopid," the captain said, good- 
naturedly. " Mr. Wenham ain't a fighting man ; and quite right, 
too." 

" This matter, in my belief," the Steyne emissary cried, " ought 
to be buried in the most profound oblivion. A word concerning it 
should never pass these doors. I speak in the interest of my friend, 
as well as of Colonel Crawley, who persists in considering me his 
enemy." 

" I suppose Lord Steyne won't talk about it very much," said 
Captain Macmurdo ; " and I don't see why our side should. The 
aifair ain't a very pretty one, any way you take it ; and the less 
said about it the better. It's you are thrashed, and not us ; and if 
you are satisfied, why, I think, we should be." 

Mr. Wenham took his hat, upon this, and Captain Macmurdo 
following him to the door, shut it upon himself and Lord Steyne's 
agent, leaving Rawdon chafing within. When the tw^o were on the 
other side, Macmurdo looked hard at the other ambassador, and 
with an expression of anything but respect on his round jolly face. 

" You don't stick at a trifle, Mr. Wenham," he said. 

" You flatter me. Captain Macmurdo," answered the other, with 
a smile. " Upon my honor and conscience now, Mrs. Crawley did 
ask us to sup after the opera." 

" Of course ; and Mrs. Wenham had one of her headaches. I 
say, I've got a thousand-pound note here, which I will give you if 
you will give me a receipt, please ; and I will put the note up in an 
envelope for Lord Steyne. My man shan't fight him. But we had 
rather not take his money." 

" It was all a mistake — all a mistake, my dear sir," the other 
said, with the utmost innocence of manner ; and was bowed down 
the club steps by Captain Macmurdo, just as Sir Pitt Crawley as- 
cended them. There was a slight acquaintance between these two 
gentlemen ; and the captain, going back with the baronet to the 
room where the latter's brother was, told Sir Pitt, in confidence, 
that he had made the affair all right between Lord Steyne and the 
colonel. 

Sir Pitt was well pleased, of course, at this intelligence; and 
congratulated his brother warmly upon the peaceful issue of the 
affair, making appropriate moral remarks upon the evils of dueling, 
and the unsatisf actoiy nature of that sort of settlement of disputes. 

And after this preface, he tried with all his eloquence to effect 
a reconciliation between Rawdon and his wife. He recapitulated 



SAME SUBJECT IS PURSUED. 619 

the statements which Becky had made, pointed out the probabilities 
of their truth, and asserted his own firm belief in her innocence. 

But Rawdon would not hear of it. " She has kep money con- 
cealed from me these ten years," he said. " She swore, last night 
•only, she had none from Steyne. She knew it was all up, directly 
I found it. If she's not guilty, Pitt, she's as bad as guilty ; and 
I'll never see her again — never." His head sank down on his 
chest as he spoke the words ; and he looked quite broken and sad. 

" Poor old boy," Macmurdo said, shaking his head. 

Rawdon Crawley resisted for some time the idea of taking the 
place which had been procured for him by so odious a patron ; 
and was also for removing the boy from the school where Lord 
Steyne's interest had placed him. He was induced, however, to 
acquiesce in these benefits by the entreaties of his brother and 
Macmurdo ; but mainly by the latter pointing out to him what a 
fury Steyne would be in, to think that his enemy's fortune was 
made through his means. 

When the Marquis of Steyne came abroad after his accident, 
the colonial secretary bowed up to him and congratulated himself 
and the service upon having made so excellent an appointment. 
These congratulations were received with a degree of gratitude 
which may be imagined on the part of Lord Steyne. 

The secret of the rencontre between him and Colonel Crawley 
was buried in the profoundest oblivion, as Wenham said ; that is 
by the seconds and the principals. But before that evening was 
over it was talked of at fifty dinner-tables in Vanity Fair. Little 
Cackleby himself went to seven evening parties, and told the stor}' 
with comments and emendations at each place. How Mrs. Wash- 
ington White reveled in it ! The Bishopess of Ealing was shocked 
beyond expression ; the bishop went and wrote his name down in 
the visiting-book at Gaunt House that very day. Little Southdown 
was sorry ; so you may be sure, was his sister Lady Jane very 
sorry. Lady Southdown wrote it off to her other daughter at the 
Cape of Good Hope. It was town-talk for at least three days, 
and was only kept out of the newspapers by the exertions of Mr. 
Wagg, acting upon a hint from Mr. Wenham. 

The bailiffs and brokers seized upon poor P^aggles in Curzon 
Street, and the late fair tenant of that poor little mansion was in 
the mean while — where ? Who cared ? Who asked after a day 
or two .? Was she guilty or not ? We all know how charitable 
the world is, and how the verdict of Vanity Fair goes when there 
is a doubt. Some people said she had gone to Naples in pursuit 
of Lord Steyne ; while others averred that his lordship quitted 
that city, and fled to Palermo on hearing of Becky's arrival ; some 
said she was living in Bierstadt, and had become a damme d^ hon- 



620 VANITY FAIR. 

neur to the Queen of Bulgaria ; some that she was at Boulogne ; 
and others, at a boarding-house at Cheltenham. 

Rawdon made her a tolerable annuity ; and we may be sure 
that she was a woman who could make a little money go a great 
way, as the saying is. He would have paid his debts on leaving 
England, could he have got any insurance office to take his life ; 
but the climate of Coventry Island was so bad that he could bor- 
row no money on the strength of his salary. He remitted, how- 
ever, to his brother punctually, and wTOte to his little boy regularly 
every mail. He kept Macmurdo in cigars ; and sent over quan- 
tities of shells, cayenne pepper, hot pickles, guava jelly, and 
colonial produce to Lady Jane, He sent his brother home the 
Swamp Tow7i Gazette^ in which the new governoT was praised with 
immense enthusiasm ; whereas the Swamp Town Sejitmel, whose 
wife was not asked to Government House, declared that his 
excellency was a tyrant, compared to whom Nero was an enlight- 
ened philanthropist. Little Rawdon used to like to get the papers 
and read about his excellency. 

His mother never made any movement to see the child. He 
went home to his aunt for Sundays and holidays ; he soon knew 
ever}^ bird's nest about Queen's Crawley, and rode out with Sir 
Huddlestone's hounds, which he admired so on his first well- 
remembered visit to Hampshire. 



I 



GEORGY IS MADE A GEXTLEMAN. 



621 



CHAPTER LVI. 



GEORGY IS MADE A GEXTLEMAX. 



EORGY OSBORNE was 

now fairly established in 
his grandfather's mansion 
in Russell Square ; occu- 
pant of his father's room 
in the house, and heir ap- 
parent of all the splendors 
there. The good looks, 
gallant bearing, and gen- 
tlemanlike appearance of 
the boy won the grand- 
sire's heart for him. Mr. 
Osborne was as proud of 
him as ever he had been 
of the elder George. 

The child had many 
more luxuries and indul- 
gencies than had been 
awarded to his father. 
Osborne's commerce had 
prospered greatly of late 
years. His wealth and 
importance in the cit}" had very much increased. He had been 
glad enough in former days to put the elder George to a good pri- 
vate school ; and a commission in the army for his son had been 
a source of no small pride to him ; for little George and his future 
prospects the old man looked much higher. He would make a 
gentleman of the little chap, was Mr. Osborne's constant saying 
regarding little Georgy. He saw him in his mind's eye a collegian, 
a parliament-man — a baronet, perhaps. The old man thought he 
would die contented if he could see his grandson in a fair way to 
such honors. He would have none but a tip-top college man to 
educate him — none of your quacks and pretenders — no, no. A 
few years before, he used to be savage, and inveigh against all 
parsons, scholars, and the like — declaring that they were a pack 
of humbugs, and quacks, that weren't fit to get their living but by 




622 VANITY FAIR. 

grinding Latin and Greek, and a set of supercilious dogs, that pre- 
tended to look down on British merchants and gentlemen, who 
could buy up half a hundred of 'em. He would mourn now, in a 
very solemn manner, that his own education had been neglected, 
and repeatedly point out, in pompous orations to Georgy, the 
necessity and excellence of classical acquirements. 

When they met at dinner the grandsire used to ask the lad what 
he had been reading during the day, and was greatly interested 
at the report the boy gave of his own studies ; pretending to un- 
derstand little George when he spoke regarding them. He made 
a hundred blunders, and showed his ignorance many a time. It 
did not increase the respect which the child had for his senior. 
A quick brain and a better education elsewhere showed the boy 
very soon that his grandsire was a dullard ; and he began ac- 
cordingly to command him and to look down upon him ; for his 
previous education, humble and contracted as it had been, had 
made a much better gentleman of Georgy than any plans of his 
grandfather could make him. He had been brought up by a 
kind, weak, and tender woman, who had no pride about anything 
but about him, and whose heart was so pure, and whose bearing 
was so meek and humble, that she could not but needs be a true 
lady. She busied herself in gentle offices and quiet duties ; if 
she never said brilliant things, she never spoke or thought unkind 
ones ; guileless and artless, loving and pure, indeed how could 
our poor little Amelia be other than a real gentlewoman ? 

Young Georgy lorded over this soft and yielding nature ; and 
the contrast of its simplicity and delicacy with the coarse pom- 
posity of the dull old man with whom he next came in contact, 
made him lord over the latter too. If he had been a prince royal 
he could not have been better brought up to think well of himself. 

While his mother was yearning after him at home, and I do 
believe every hour of the day, and during most hours of the sad, 
lonely nights, thinking of him, this young gentleman had a 
number of pleasures and consolations administered to him, which 
made him for his part bear the separation from Amelia very easily. 
Little boys who cry when they are going to school, cry because 
they are going to a ver}'- uncomfortable place. It is only a very 
few who weep from sheer affection. When you think that the 
eyes of your childhood dried at the sight of a piece of gingerbread, 
and that a plumcake was a compensation for the agony of parting 
wdth your mamma and sisters ; oh, my friend and brother, you need 
not be too confident of your own fine feehngs. 

Well, then. Master George Osborne had ever}^ comfort and lux- 
ury that a wealthy and lavish old grandfather thought fit to pro- 
vide. The coachman was instructed to purchase for him the hand- 



GEORGY IS MADE A GENTLEMAN. 



623 



somest pony which could be bought for money ; and on this George 
was taught to ride, first at a riding-school, whence, after having 
performed satisfactorily without stirrups, and over the leaping-bar, 
he was conducted through the new road to Regent's Park, and 
then to Hyde Park, where he rode in state with Martin the coach- 
man behind him. Old Osborne, who took matters more easily in 
the city now, where he left his affairs to his junior partners, would 
often ride out with Miss O. in the same fashionable direction. As 
little Georgy came cantering up with his dandified air, and his heels 
down, his grandfather would nudge the lad's aunt, and say, " Look, 
Miss O." And he 
would laugh, and 
his face would 
grow red with 
pleasure, as he 
nodded out of the 
window to the boy, 
as the groom salut- 
e d the carriage, 
and the footman 
saluted Master 
George. Here too 
his aunt, Mrs. 
Frederick Bullock 
(whose chariot 
might daily be 
seen in the ring 
with bullocks or 
emblazoned on the 
panels and har- 
ness and three pas- 
ty-faced little Bullocks, covered with cockades and feathers, staring 
from the windows) — Mrs. Frederick Bullock, I say, flung glances of 
the bitterest hatred at the little upstart as he rode by with his hand on 
his side and his hat on one ear, as proud as a lord. 

Though he was scarcely eleven years of age. Master George 
wore straps, and the most beautiful little boots like a man. He 
had gilt spurs, and a gold-headed whip, and a fine pin in his hand- 
kerchief ; and the neatest little kid gloves which Lamb's Conduit 
Street could furnish. His mother had given him a couple of neck- 
cloths, and carefully hemmed and made some little shirts for him ; 
but when her Eli came to see the widow, they were replaced by 
much finer linen. He had little jeweled buttons in the lawn 
shirt-fronts. Her humble presents had been put aside — I believe 
Miss Osborne had given them to the coachman's boy. Amelia 




624 VAiVITY FAIR. 

tried to think she was pleased at the change. Indeed she was 
happy and charmed to see the boy looking so beautiful. 

She had had a little black profile of him done for a shilling ; and 
this was hung up by the side of another portrait over her bed. 
One day the boy came on his accustomed visit, galloping down the 
little street at Brompton, and bringing, as usual, all the inhabitants 
to the windows to admire his splendor, and with great eagerness, 
and a look of triumph in his face, he pulled a case out of his great- 
coat — (it was a natty white great-coat, with a cape and a velvet 
collar) — pulled out a red morocco case, which he gave her. 

" I bought it with my own money, mamma," he said. " I thought 
you'd like it." 

Amelia opened the case, and, giving a little cry of delighted af- 
fection, seized the boy and embraced him a hundred times. It 
was a miniature of himself, very prettily done (though not half 
handsome enough, we may be sure the widow thought). His 
grandfather had wished to have a picture of him by an artist whose 
works, exhibited in a shop-window in Southampton Row^, had 
caught the old gentleman's eyes ; and George, who had plenty of 
money, bethought him of asking the painter how much a copy of 
the little portrait would cost, for his mother, saying that he would 
pay for it out of his own money, and that he wanted to give it to 
his mother. The pleased painter executed it for a small price ; 
and old Osborne himself, when he heard of the incident, growled 
out his satisfaction, and gave the boy twice as many sovereigns as 
he paid for the miniature. 

But what was the grandfather's pleasure compared to Amelia's 
ecstasy ? That proof of the boy's affection charmed her so, that 
she thought no child in the world was like her's for goodness. For 
long weeks after, the thought of his love made her happy. She 
slept better with the picture under her pillow ; and how many many 
times did she kiss it, and weep and pray over it ! A small kind- 
ness from those she loved made that timid heart grateful. Since 
her parting with George she had had no such joy and consolation. 

At his new home Master George ruled like a lord. At dinner 
he invited the ladies to drink wine with the utmost coolness, and 
took off his champagne in a way which charmed his old grand- 
father. " Look at him," the old man would say, nudging his neigh- 
bor with a delighted purple face, " did you ever see such a chap ? 
Lord, Lord ! he'll be ordering a dressing case next, and razors to 
shave wdth; I'm blest if he won't." 

The antics of the lad did not, however, delight Mr. Osborne's 
friends so much as they pleased the old gentleman. It gave Mr. 
Justice Coffin no pleasure to hear Georg}' cut into the conversation 
and spoil his stories. Colonel Fogey w^as not interested in seeing 



GEORGy jo M/iUE A GENTLEMAN. 



625 



the little boy half tips}'. Mr. Sergeant Toffy's lady felt no partic- 
ular gratitude, when, with a twist of his elbow, he tilted a glass of 
port wine over her yellow satin, and laughed at the disaster ; nor 
was she better pleased, although old Osborne was highly delighted, 
when Georgy " wopped " her third boy (a young gentleman a year 
older than Georgy, and by chance home for the holidays from Dr. 
Tickleus's at Ealing School) in Russell Square. George's grand- 
father gave the boy a couple of sovereigns for that feat ; and prom- 
i s e d to reward 
him further for 
ever}- boy above 
his own size and 
age whom he 
" wopped " in a 
similar manner. 
It is difficult to 
say what good the 
old man saw in 
these combats ; 
he had a vague 
notion that quar- 
reling made boys 
hardy, and that 
tyranny was a 
useful accom- 
plishment for 
them to learn. 
EngHsh youth 
have been so ed= 
ucated time out 
of mind, and we 
have hundreds of 
thousands of 
apologists and 
admirers of injus- 
tice, misery, and 
brutality, as per- 
petrated among 
children. 

Flushed with praise and victory over Master Toffy, George 
wished naturally to pursue his conquests further, and one day as 
he was strutting about in prodigiously dandified new clothes, near 
St. Pancras, and a young baker's boy made sarcastic comments 
upon his appearance, the youthful patrician pulled off his dandy 
jacket with great spirit, and gave it in charge to the friend who ac- 




626 VANITY FAIR. 

companied him ( Master Todd, of Great Coram Street, Russell 
Square, son of the junior partner of the house of Osborne & Co.). 
George tried to wop the Httle baker. But the chances of war were 
unfavorable this time, and the little baker wopped Georgy, who 
came home with a rueful black eye, and all his fine shirt-frill dab- 
bled with the claret drawn from his own little nose. He told his 
grandfather that he had been in combat with a giant, and frightened 
his poor mother at Brompton with long, and by no means authentic, 
accounts of the battle. 

This young Todd, of Coram Street, Russell Square, was Mas- 
ter George's great friend and admirer. They both had a taste for 
painting theatrical characters ; for hard-bake and raspberr}^-tarts ; 
for sliding and skating in the Regent's Park and the Serpentine, 
when the weather permitted ; for going to the play, whither they 
were often conducted, by Mr. Osborne's orders, by Rowson, Mas- 
ter George's appointed body-servant ; with w^hom they sat in great 
comfort in the pit. 

In the company of this gentleman they visited all the principal 
theaters of the metropolis — knew the names of all the actors from 
Drury Lane to Sadler's Wells ; and performed, indeed, many of the 
plays to the Todd family and their youthful friends, with West's 
famous characters, on their pasteboard theater. Rowson, the foot- 
man, who was of a generous disposition, would not unfrequently, 
when in cash, treat his young master to oysters after the play, and 
to a glass of rum-shrub for a nightcap. We may be pretty certain 
that Mr. Rowson profited in his turn, by his 3^oung master's liber- 
ality and gratitude for the pleasures to which the footman inducted 
him. 

A famous tailor from the West End of the town — Mr. Osborne 
would have none of your city or Holborn bunglers, he said, for the 
boy (though a city tailor w^as good enough for hivi) — was summoned 
to ornament little George's person, and was told to spare no ex- 
pense in so doing. So, Mr. Woolsey, of Conduit Street, gave a 
loose to his imagination, and sent the child home fancy trousers, 
fancy waistcoats, and fancy jackets enough to furnish a school of 
little dandies. Georgy had little white waistcoats for evening par- 
ties and little cut velvet waistcoats for dinners, and a dear little 
darling shawl dressing-gown, for all the world like a little man. He 
dressed for dinner every day, " like a regular West End swell," as 
his grandfather remarked ; one of the domestics was appointed to 
his special service, attended him at his toilet, answered his bell, 
and brought him his letters always on a silver tray. 

Georg}^, after breakfast, would sit in. the arm-chair in the dining- 
room, and read the Morning Post, just like a grown-up man. 
" How he du dam and swear," the servants would cry, delighted at 



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III !' 



&'^ vim 



'^m\ I 



ji 1 



! 



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liliilll 



!i';iii!'! !;;;;! 











628 VANITY FAIR. 

his precocity. Those who remembered the captain his father declar- 
ed Master George was his pa every inch of him. He made the house 
Uvely by his activity, his imperiousness, his scolding, and his good 
nature. 

George's education was confided to a neighboring scholar and 
private pedagogue, who " prepared young noblemen and gentlemen 
for the universities, the senate, and the learned professions ; 
whose system did not embrace the degrading corporal severities 
still practiced at the ancient places of education, and in whose 
family the pupils would find the elegances of refined society and 
the confidence and aft^ection of a home." It was in this way that 
the Reverend Lawrence Veal of Hart Street, Bloomsbur}', and 
domestic chaplain to the Earl of Bareacres, strove with Mrs. Veal 
his wife to entice pupils. 

By thus advertising and pushing sedulously, the domestic chaplain 
and his lady generally succeeded in having one or two scholars by 
them ; who paid a high figure ; and were thought to be in uncom- 
monly comfortable quarters. There was a large West Indian, 
whom nobody came to see, with a mahogany complexion, a woolly 
head, and an exceedingly dandified appearance ; there was another 
hulking boy of th re e-and- twenty whose education had been neg- 
lected, and whom Mr. and Mrs. Veal were to introduce into the 
polite world ; there were two sons of Colonel Bangles of the East 
India Company's service ; these four sat down to dinner at Mrs. 
Veal's genteel board, when Georgy was introduced to her establish- 
ment. 

Georgy was, like some dozen other pupils, only a day boy ; he 
arrived in the morning under the guardianship of his friend Mr. 
Rowson, and if it was fine, would ride away in the afternoon on 
his pony, followed by the groom. The wealth of his grandfather 
was reported in the school to be prodigious. The Rev. Mr. Veal 
used to compliment Georgy upon it personally, warning him that 
he was destined for a high station ; that it became him to prepare, 
by sedulity and docility in youth, for the lofty duties to which he 
would be called in mature age ; that obedience in the child was the 
best preparation for command in the man : and that he therefore 
begged George would not bring toffy into the school, and ruin the 
health of the Masters Bangles, who had everything they wanted at 
the elegant and abundant table of Mrs. Veal. 

With respect to learning, " the curriculum," as Mr. Veal loved to 
call it, was of prodigious extent ; and the young gentleman in Hart 
Street might learn a something of ever}' known science. The Rev. 
Mr. Veal had orrer}^, an electrifying machine, a turning lathe, a 
theater (in the wash-house), a chemical apparatus, and what he 
called a select Hbrarv of all the works of the best authors of 



GEORGY IS MADE A GENTLEMAN. 629 

ancient and modern times and languages. He took the boys to the 
British Museum, and descanted upon the antiquities and the speci- 
mens of natural history there, so that audiences would gather round 
him as he spoke, and all Bloomsbury highly admired him as a prodi- 
giously well-informed man. And whenever he spoke (which he did 
almost always), he took care to produce the very finest and longest 
words of which the vocabulary gave him the use ; rightly judging that 
it was as cheap to employ a handsome, large, and sonorous epithet, 
as to use a little stingy one. 

Thus he w^ould say to George in school, " I observed on my 
return home from taking the indulgence of an evening's scientific 
conversation with my excellent friend Doctor Bulders — a true 
archaeologian, gentlemen, a true archaeologian — that the windows 
of your venerated grandfather's almost princely mansion in Rus- 
sell Square were illuminated as if for the purposes of festivity. Am 
I right in my conjecture that Mr. Osborne entertained a society of 
chosen spirits round his sumptuous board last night ? " 

Little Georgy, who had considerable humor, and used to mimic 
Mr. Veal to his face with great spirit and dexterity would reply, that 
Mr. V. was quite correct in his surmise. 

" Then those friends who had the honor of partaking of Mr. 
Osborne's hospitality, gentlemen, had no reason, I will lay any 
wager, to complain of their repast. I myself have been more than 
once so favored. (By the way, Master Osborne, you came a little 
late this morning, and have been a defaulter in this respect more 
than once.) I myself, I say, gentlemen, humble as I am, have 
been found not unworthy to share Mr. Osborne's elegant hospi- 
tality. And though I have feasted with the great and noble of the 
world — for I presume that I may call my excellent friend and 
patron, the Right Honorable George Earl of Bareacres, one of the 
number — yet I assure you that the board of the British merchant was 
to the full as richly served, and his reception as gratifying and 
noble. Mr. Bluck, sir, we will resume, if 3^ou please, the passage 
of Eutropius, which was interrupted by the late arrival of Master 
Osborne." 

To this great man George's education was for some time 
entrusted. Amelia was bewildered by his phrases, but thought him 
a prodigy of learning. That poor widow made friends of Mrs. 
Veal, for reasons of her own. She liked to be in the house, and 
see Georgy coming to school there. She liked to be asked to Mrs. 
Veal's conversazioni^ and which took place once a month (as you 
w^ere informed on pink cards, with aohnh engraved on them), and 
where the professor welcomed his pupils and their friends to weak 
tea and scientific conversation. Poor little Amelia never missed 
one of these entertainments, and thought them delicious so long 



630 VA.VITY FAIR. 

as she might have Georg)^ sitting by her. And she would walk 
from Brompton in any weather, and embrace Mrs. Veal with tear- 
ful gratitude for the delightful evening she had passed, when, the 
company having retired and Georg}' gone off with Mr. Rowson, his 
attendant, poor Mrs. Osborne put on her cloaks and her shawls- 
preparatory- to walking home. 

As for the learning which Georgy imbibed under this valuable- 
master of a hundred sciences, to judge from the weekly reports 
which the lad took home to his grandfather, his progress was- 
remarkable. The names of a score or more of desirable branches 
of knowledge were printed in a table, and the pupil's progress in 
each was marked by the professor. In Greek Georg}- was pro- 
nounced aristos, in Latin optimus, in French tres bien, and so forth : 
and ever}'body had prizes for everything at the end of the year.. 
Even Mr. Swartz, the woolly headed young gentleman, and half- 
brother to the Honorable Mrs. Mac Mull, and Mr. Bluck, the neg- 
lected young pupil of three-and-twenty from the agricultural districts, 
and that idle young scapegrace of a Master Todd before mentioned,, 
received little eighteenpenny books, with " Athene " engraved on 
them, and a pompous Latin inscription from the professor to his- 
young friends. 

The family of this Master Todd were hangers-on of the house of 
Osborne. The old gentleman had advanced Todd from being a 
clerk to be a junior partner in his estabhshment. 

Mr. Osborne w^as the godfather of young ]\Iaster Todd (who in 
subsequent life wrote Mr. Osborne Todd on his cards, and became 
a man of decided fashion), while Miss Osborne had accompanied 
Miss Maria Todd to the font, and gave h.QX protegee a prayer-book, 
a collection of tracts, a volume of \&ry low church poetry, or some 
such memento of her goodness every year. Miss O. drove the 
Todds out in her carriage now and then ; when they were ill, her 
footman, in large plush smalls and waistcoat, brought jellies and 
delicacies from Russell Square, to Coram Street. Coram Street 
trembled and looked up to Russell Square, indeed ; and Mrs. Todd, 
who had a pretty hand at cutting out paper trimmings for haunches of 
mutton, and could make flowers, ducks, etc., out of turnips and car- 
rots in a very creditable manner, would go to " the Square," as it was 
called, and assist in the preparations incident to a great dinner, with- 
out even so much as thinking of sitting down to the banquet. If any 
guest failed at the eleventh hour, Todd was asked to dine. Mrs. 
Todd and Maria came across in the evening, slipped in with a muffled 
knock, and were in the drawing-room by the time Miss Osborne 
and the ladies under her c6rrvoy reached that apartment; and 
ready to fire off duets and sing until the gentlemen came up. 
Poor Maria Todd ; poor young lady ! How she had to work and 



GEORGY IS MADE A GENTLEMAN, 631 

thrum at these duets and sonatas in the street, before they appeared 
in public in the square ! 

Thus it seemed to be decreed by fate, that Georgy was to domi- 
neer over everybody with whom he came in contact, and that 
friends, relatives, and domestics were all to bow the knee before 
the little fellow. It must be owned that he accommodated him- 
self very willingly to this arrangement. Most people do so. And 
Georgy liked to play the part of master, and perhaps had a nat- 
ural aptitude for it. 

In Russell Square everybody was afraid of Mr. Osborne, and 
Mr. Osborne was afraid of Georgy. The boy's dashing manners 
and off-hand rattle about books and learning, his likeness to his 
father (dead unreconciled in Brussels yonder), awed the old gentle- 
man, and gave the young boy the mastery. The old man would 
start at some hereditary feature or tone unconsciously used by the 
little lad, and fancy that George's father was again before him. 
He tried by indulgence to the grandson to make up for harshness 
to the elder George. People were surprised at his gentleness to 
the boy. He growled and swore at Miss Osborne as usual ; and 
would smile when George came down late for breakfast. 

Miss Osborne, George's aunt, was a faded old spinster, broken 
down by more than forty years of dullness and coarse usage. It 
was easy for a lad of spirit to master her. And whenever George 
wanted anything from her, from the jam-pots in her cupboards, to 
the cracked and dry old colors in her paint-box (the old paint-box 
which she had had when she was a pupil of Mr. Smee, and was 
still almost young and blooming) Georgy took possession of the 
object of his desire, which obtained, he took no further notice of 
his aunt. 

For his friends and cronies, he had a pompous old schoolmaster, 
who flattered him, and a toady, his senior, whom he could thrash. 
It was dear Mrs. Todd's delight to leave him with her youngest 
daughter, Rosa Jemima, a darling child of eight years old. The 
little pair looked so well together, she would say (but not to the 
folks in " the Square," we may be sure). " Who knows what might 
happen ? Don't they make a pretty little couple ? " the fond 
mother thought. 

The broken-spirited, old, maternal grandfather was likewise sub- 
ject to the little tyrant. He could not help respecting a lad who 
had such fine clothes, and rode with a groom behind him. Georgy, 
on his side, was in the constant habit of hearing coarse abuse and 
vulgar satire leveled at John Sedley, by his pitiless old enemy, Mr. 
Osborne. Osborne used to call the other the old pauper, the old 
coal-man, the old bankrupt, and by many other such names of bru- 
tal contumely. How was little George to respect a man so pros- 



632 VANITY FAIR. 

trate ? A few months after he was with his paternal grandfather, 
Mrs. Sedley died. There had been Uttle love between her and the 
child. He did not care to show much grief. He came down to 
visit his mother in a fine new suit of mourning, and was ver)^ angry 
that he could not go to a play upon which he had set his heart. 

The illness of that old lady had been the occupation and per- 
haps the safeguard of Amelia. What do men know about women's 
martyrdoms ? ^^'e should go mad had we to endure the hundre^^h 
part of those daily pains which are meekly borne by many wome 
Ceaseless slaver}^ meeting with no reward ; constant gentleness ana 
kindness met by cruelty as constant ; love, labor, patience, watch- 
fulness, without even so much as the acknowledgment of a good 
word ; all this, how many of them have to bear in quiet, and appear 
abroad with cheerful faces as if the}' felt nothing. Tender slaves 
that they are, they must needs be hypocrites and weak. 

From her chair Amelia's mother had taken to her bed, which 
she had never left; and from which Mrs. Osborne herself was 
never absent except when she ran to see George. The old lady 
grudged her even those rare visits ; she, who had been a kind, 
smiling, good-natured mother once^ in the days of her prosiDcrit}", 
but whom povert}' and infirmities had broken down. Her illness 
or estrangement did not affect Amelia. They rather enabled her to 
support the other calamity under which she was suffering, and 
from the thoughts of which she was kept by the ceaseless calls of 
the invalid. Amelia bore her harshness quite gently ; smoothed 
the uneasy pillow ; was alwa^'s ready with a soft answer to the 
watchful, querulous voice ; soothed the sufferer with words of 
hope, such as her pious simple heart could best feel and utter, and 
closed the eyes that had once looked so tenderly upon her. 

Then all her time and tenderness were devoted to the consola- 
tion and comfort of the bereaved old father, who was stunned by 
the blow which had befallen him, and stood utterly alone in the 
world. His wife, his honor, his fortune, everything he loved best 
had fallen away from him. There was only Amelia to stand by 
and support with her gentle arms the tottering, heart-broken old 
man. We are not going to write the histor}' ; it would be too drear}' 
and stupid. I can see Vanity Fair yawning over it d'avaiice. 

One day as the young gentlemen were assembled in the study at 
the Rev. Mr. Veal's and the domestic chaplain to the Right Hon- 
orable the Earl of Bareacres was spouting away as usual — a smart 
carriage drove up to the door decorated with the statue of Athene, 
and two gentlemen stepped out. The young masters Bangles 
rushed to the window, with a vague notion that their father might 
have arrived from Bombay. The great hulking scholar of three- 



GEORGY IS MADE A GENTLEMAA 633 

and-twenty, who was crying secretly over a passage of Eutropius, 
flattened his neglected nose against the panes, and looked at the 
drag, as the laquais de place sprang from the box and let out the 
persons in the carriage. 

" It's a fat one and a thin one," Mr. Buck said, as a thundering 
knock came to the door. 

Everybody was interested, from the domestic chaplain himself, 
who hoped he saw the fathers of some future pupils, down to Mas- 
ter Georgy, glad of any pretext for laying his book down. 

The boy in the shabby livery, with the faded copper-buttons, 
who always thrust himself into the tight coat to open the door, 
came into the study and said, " Two gentlemen want to see Mas- 
ter Osborne." The professor had had a trifling altercation in the 
morning with that young gentleman, owing to a difference about 
the introduction of crackers in school-time ; but his face resumed 
its habitual expression of bland courtesy as he said, " Master Os- 
borne, I give you full permission to go and see your carriage friends 
— to whom I beg you to convey the respectful compliments of my- 
self and Mrs. Veal." 

Georgy went into the reception-room and saw two strangers, 
whom he looked at with his head up, in his usual haughty manner. 
One was fat, with mustaches, and the other was lean and long, in 
a blue frock-coat, with a brown face and a grizzled head. 

" My God, how like he is ! " said the long gentleman, wdth a 
start. " Can you guess who we are, George ? " 

The boy's face flushed up, as it did usually when he was moved, 
and his eyes brightened. " I don't know the other," he said, 
" but I should think you must be Major Dobbin." 

Indeed it was our old friend. His voice trembled Avith pleasure 
as he greeted the boy, and taking both the other's hands in his 
own, drew the lad to him. 

" Your mother has talked to you about me, has she ? " he said. 

" That she has," Georgy answered, " hundreds and hundreds of 
times." 



634 



VAXITY FAIR. 



CHAPTER LVII. 



EOTHEX. 



T was one of the many causes foi 
personal pride with which old 
Osborne chose to recreate him- 
self, that Sedley, his ancient 
rival, enemy, and benefactor, 
was in his last days so utterly 
defeated and humiliated, as to be 
forced to accept pecuniary obli- 
gations at the hands of the man 
who had most injured and in- 
sulted him. The successful man 
of the world cursed the old pau- 
per, and relieved him from time 
to time. As he furnished George 
with money for his mother, he 
gave the boy to understand by 
hints, delivered in his brutal, 
coarse way, that George's mater- 
nal grandfather was but a 
wretched old bankrupt and de- 
pendent, and that John Sedley 
might thank the man to whom 
he owed already ever so much 
money, for the aid which his generosity now chose to administer. 
George carried the pompous supplies to his mother and the shat- 
tered old widower whom it was now the main business of her life 
to tend and comfort. The little fellow patronized the feeble and 
disappointed old man. 

It may have shown a want of '' proper pride " in Amelia that she 
chose to accept these money benefits at the hands of her father's 
enemy. But proper pride and this poor lady had never had much 
acquaintance together. A disposition naturally simple and de- 
manding protection ; a long course of povert}- and humilit}', of 
daily privations, and hard words, of kind offices and no returns, 
had been her lot ever since womanhood almost, or since her luck- 
less marriage with George Osborne. You who see your betters 




EOTHEN. 635 

bearing up under this shame every day meekly suffering under 
the sUghts of fortune, gentle and unpitied, poor, and rather de- 
spised for their poverty, do you ever step down from your pros- 
perity and wash the feet of these poor w^earied beggars ? The 
very thought of them is odious and low. " There must be classes 
— there must be rich and poor," Dives says, smacking his claret — 
(it is w^ell if he ever sends the broken meat out to Lazarus sitting 
under the window). Very true ; but think how^ mysterious and often 
unaccountable it is — that lottery of life which gives to this man the 
purple and fine linen, and sends to the other rags for garments and 
dogs for comforters. 

So I must own, that without much repining, on the contrary with 
something akin to gratitude, Amelia took the crumbs that her 
father-in-law let drop now and then, and with them fed her own 
parent. Directly she understood it to be her duty, it was this 
young woman's nature (ladies, she is but thirty still, and we choose 
to call her a young woman even at that age) — it was, I say, her 
nature to sacrifice herself and to fling all that she had at the feet 
of the beloved object. During what long thankless nights had she 
worked out her fingers for little Georgy while at home with her ; 
what buft'ets, scorns, privations, poverties had she endured for 
father and mother ! And in the midst of all these solitar}^ resigna- 
tions and unseen sacrifices, she did not respect herself any more 
than the world respected her ; but I believe thought in her heart 
that she was a poor-spirited despicable little creature, whose luck 
in life was only too good for her merits. O you poor women ! O 
you poor secret martyrs and victims, whose life is a torture, who are 
stretched on racks in your bedrooms, and w^ho lay your heads 
down on the block daily at the drawing-room table ; every man 
who watches your pains, or peers into those dark places where the 
torture is administered to you, must pity you — and — and thank 
God that he has a beard. I recollect seeing, years ago, at the 
prison for idiots and madmen at Biceire, near Paris, a poor wTetch 
bent dowai under the bondage of his imprisonment and his per- 
sonal infirmity to w^hom one of our party gave a half-pennyworth of 
snuft' in a cor7iet or " screw " of paper. The kindness was too 
much for the poor epileptic creature. He cried in an anguish of 
delight and gratitude ; if anybody gave 3^ou and me a thousand a 
year, or saved our lives, w-e could not be so affected. And so, if 
you properly tyrannize over a woman, you wall find a halfp'orth of 
kindness act upon her, and bring tears into her eyes, as though 
you were an angel benefiting her. 

Some such boons as these were the best fortune allotted to poor 
little Amelia. Her life, begun not unprosperously, had come down 
to this — to a mean prison and a long, ignoble bondage Little 



636 ' VANITY FAIR, 

George visited her captivity sometimes, and consoled it with feeble 
gleams of encouragement. Russell Square was the boundary of 
her prison ; she might walk thither occasionally, but was always 
back to sleep in her cell at night ; to perform cheerless duties ; to 
watch by thankless sick-beds ; to suffer the harassment and 
tyranny of querulous disappointed old age. How many thousands 
of people are there, women for the most part, who are doomed to 
endure this long slavery ? — who are hospital nurses without wages 
— sisters of charity, if you like, without the romance and the sen- 
timent of sacrifice — who strive, fast, watch, and suffer, unpitied ; 
and fade away ignobly and unknown. 

The hidden and awful Wisdom which apportions the destinies of 
mankind is pleased so to humiliate and cast down the tender, good, 
and wise ; and to set up the selfish, the foolish, or the wicked. 
Oh, be humble, my brother, in your prosperity ! Be gentle with 
those who are less lucky, if not more deserving. Think, what right 
have you to be scornful, whose virtue is a deficiency of temptation, 
whose success may be a chance, whose rank may be an ancestor's 
accident, whose prosperity is very likely a satire. 

They buried Amelia's mother in the churchyard at Brompton ; 
upon just such a rainy, dark day, as Amelia recollected when first 
she had been there to marry George. Her little boy sat by her 
side in pompous new sables. She remembered the old pew-woman 
and clerk. Her thoughts were away in other times as the parson 
read. But that she held George's hand in her ow^n, perhaps she 
would have liked to change places with .... Then, as 
usual, she felt ashamed of her selfish thoughts, and prayed 
inwardly to be strengthened to do her duty. 

So she determined with all her might and strength to try and 
make her old father happy. She slaved, toiled, patched, and 
mended, sang and played back-gammon, read out the newspaper, 
cooked dishes for old Sedley, walked him out sedulously into Ken- 
sington Gardens or the Brompton lanes, listened to his stories with 
untiring smiles and affectionate hypocris}^, or sat musing by his side 
and communing with her own thoughts and reminiscences, as the 
old man, feeble and querulous, sunned himself on the garden 
benches and prattled about his wrongs and sorrows. What sad, 
unsatisfactory thoughts those of the widow were ! The children 
running up and down the slopes and broad paths in the gardens, 
reminded her of George who was taken from her ; the first George 
was taken from her ; her selfish, guilty love, in both instances, had 
been bitterly chastized. She strove to think it was right that she 
should be so punished. She was such a miserable wicked sinner 
She was quite alone in the world. 



EOTHEN, 637 

I know that the account of this kind of solitary imprisonment is 
insufferably tedious, unless there is some cheerful or humorous 
incident to enliven it — a tender jailer, for instance, or a waggish 
commandant of the fortress, or a mouse to come out and play about 
Latude's beard and whiskers, or a subterranean passage under the 
castle, dug by Trenck with his nails and a toothpick ; the historian 
has no such enlivening incident to relate in the narrative of Amelia's 
captivity. Fancy her, if you please, during this period, very sad, but 
always ready to smile when spoken to , in a very mean, poor, not 
to say vulgar position of life ; singing songs, making puddings, 
playing cards, mending stockings for her old father's benefit. So, 
never mind, whether she be a heroine or no ; or you and I, how- 
ever old, scolding and bankrupt — may we have in our last days a 
kind soft shoulder on which to lean, and a gentle hand to soothe 
our gouty old pillows. 

Old Sedley grew very fond of his daughter after his wife's death , 
and Amelia had her consolation in doing her duty by the old man. 

But we are not going to leave these two people long in such a 
low and ungenteel station of life. Better days, as far as worldly 
prosperity went, were in store for both. Perhaps the ingenious 
reader has guessed who was the stout gentleman who called upon 
Georgy at his school in company with our old friend Major Dobbin. 
It was another old acquaintance returned to England, and at a 
time when his presence was likely to be of great comfort to his 
relatives there. 

Major Dobbin having easily succeeded in getting leave from his 
good-natured commandant to proceed to Madras, and thence prob- 
ably to Europe, on urgent private affairs, never ceased traveling 
nighfand day until he reached his journey's end, and had directed 
his march with such celerity, that he arrived at Madras in a high 
fever. His servants who accompanied him, brought him to the 
house of the friend with whom he had resolved to stay until his de- 
parture for Europe in a state of delirium ; and it was thought for 
many many many days that he would never travel further than the 
burying-ground of the church of St. George's, where the troops 
should fire a salvo over his grave, and where many a gallant officer 
lies far away from his home. 

Here, as the poor fellow lay tossing in his fever, the people who 
watched him might have heard him raving about Amelia. The idea 
that he should never see her again depressed him in his lucid hours. 
He thought his last day was come ; and he made his solemn prep- 
arations for departure ; setting his affairs in this world in order, 
and leaving the little property of which he was possessed to those 
whom he most desired to benefit. The friend in whose house he 
was located witnessed his testament. He desired to be buried with 



638 VANITY FAIR, 

a little brown hair-chain which he wore round his neck, and which, 
if the truth must be known, he had got from Amelia's maid at 
Brussels, when the young widow's hair was cut off during the fever 
which prostrated her after the death of George Osborne on the 
plateau at Mount St. John. 

He recovered, rallied, relapsed again, having undergone such a 
process of blood-letting and calomel as showed the strength of his 
original constitution. He was almost a skeleton when they put 
him on board the Ramchunder East Indiaman, Captain Bragg, 
from Calcutta, touching at Madras ; and so weak and prostrate, 
that his friend who had tended him through his illness, prophesied 
that the honest major would never survive the voyage, and that he 
would pass some morning, shrouded in flag and hammock, over the 
ship's side, and carrying down to the sea with him the relic that he 
wore at his heart. But whether it was the sea-air, or the hope which 
sprung up in him afresh, from the day that the ship spread her 
canvas and stood out of the roads toward home^ our friend began 
to amend, and he was quite well (though as gaunt as a grayhound) 
before they reached the Cape. " Kirk will be disappointed of his 
majority this time," he said, with a smile ; "he will expect to find 
himself gazetted by the time the regiment reaches home." For it 
must be premised that while the major was lying ill at Madras^ 
having made such prodigious haste to go thither, the gallant — th, 
which had passed many years abroad, which after its return from 
the West Indies had been balked of its stay at home by the Water- 
loo campaign, and had been ordered from Flanders to India, had 
received orders home ; and the major might have accompanied his 
comrades, had he chosen to wait for their arrival at Madras. 

Perhaps he was not inclnied to put himself, in his exhausted state, 
again under the guardianship of Glorvina. " I think Miss O'Dowd 
would have done forme," he said, laughingly, to a fellow-passenger, 
" if we had had her on board, and when she had sunk me, she would 
have fallen upon you, depend upon it, and carried you in as a prize 
to Southampton, Jos, my boy." 

For indeed it w^as no other than our stout friend who was also a 
passenger on board the Ramchunder. He had passed ten years 
in Bengal — constant dinners, tiffins, pale ale and claret, the pro- 
digious labor of cutcherry, and the refreshment of brandy-pawnee 
which he was forced to take there, had their effect upon Waterloo 
Sedley. A voyage to Europe was pronounced necessary for him — 
and having served his full time in India, and had fine appointments 
which had enabled him to lay by a considerable sum of money, he 
-was free to come home and stay with a good pension, or to return 
and resume that rank in his service to which his seniority and his 
vast talents entitled him. 



s 



EOTHEN. 639 

He was rather thinner than when we last saw him, but had gained 
in majesty and solemnity of demeanor. He had resumed the 
mustaches to which his services at Waterloo entitled him, and 
swaggered about on deck m a magnificent velvet cap with a gold 
band, and a profuse ornamentation of pins and jewelry about his 
person. He took breakfast in his cabin, and dressed as solemnly 
to appear on the quarter-deck as if he was going to turn out for 
Bond Street, or the course at Calcutta. He brought a native ser- 
vant with him, who was his valet and pipe-bearer, and who wore the 
Sedley crest in silver on his turban. That oriental menial had a 
wretched life under the tyranny of Jos Sedle}^ Jos was as vain of 
his person as a woman, and took as long a time at his toilet as any 
fading beauty. The youngsters among the passengers, young 
Chaffers of the 150th, and poor little Ricketts, coming home after 
his third fever, used to draw out Sedley at the cuddy-table and make 
him tell prodigious stories about himself and his exploits against 
tigers and Napoleon. He was great when he visited the emperor's 
tomb at Longwood, when to these gentlemen and the young officers 
of the ship, Major Dobbin not being by, he described the whole 
battle of Waterloo, and all but announced that Napoleon never 
would have gone to St. Helena at all but for him, Jos Sedley. 

After leaving St. Helena he became very generous, disposing of 
a great quantity of ship stores, claret, preserved meats, and great 
casks packed with soda-water brought out for his private delectation. 
There were no ladies on board. The major gave the pas of pre- 
cedency to the civilian, so that he was the first dignitary 'at table 
and treated by Captain Bragg and the officers of the Ramchunder 
with the respect which his rank warranted. He disappeared rather 
in a panic during a two-days' gale, in which he had the port-holes of 
his cabin battened down, and remained, in his cot reading the 
" Washerwoman of Finchley Common," left on board the Ramchun- 
der by the Right Honorable the Lady Emily Hornblower, wife of 
the Rev. Silas Hornblower, when on their passage out of the Cape, 
where the reverend gentleman was a missionary ; but, for common 
reading, he had brought a stock of novels and plays which he lent 
to the rest of the ship, and rendered himself agreeable to all by his 
kindness and condescension. 

Many and many a night as the ship was cutting through the 
roaring, dark sea, the moon and stars shining overhead, and the 
bell singing out the watch, Mr. Sedley and the major would sit on 
the quarter-deck of the vessel talking about home, as the major 
smoked his cheroot, and the civilian puffed at the hookah which 
his servant prepared for him. 

In these conversations it was wonderful with what perseverance 
and ingenuity Major Dobbin would manage to bring the talk round 



640 



VANITY FAIR. 



to the subject of Amelia and her little boy. Jos, a little testy about 
his father's misfortunes, and unceremonious applications to him, 
was soothed down by the major, who pointed out the eider's ill for- 
tunes and old age. He would not perhaps like to live with the old 
couple, whose ways and hours might not agree with those of 2 




younger man, accustomed to different society (Jos bowed at this 
compliment) ; but the major pointed out how advantageous it would 
be for Jos Sedley to have a house of his own in London, and not a 
mere bachelor's establishment as before ; how his sister Amelia 
would be the very person to preside over it ; how elegant, how 



EOTHEN. 641 

gentle she was, and of what refined good manners. He recounted 
stories of the success which Mrs. George Osborne had had in formei 
days at Brussels, and in London, where she was much admired by 
people of very great fashion ; and he then hinted how becoming it 
would be for Jos to send Georgy to a good school and make a man 
of him ; for his mother and her parents would be sure to spoil him. 
In a word, this artful major made the civilian promise to take charge 
of Amelia and her unprotected child. He did not know as yet 
what events had happened in the little Sedley family ; and how 
death had removed the mother, and riches had carried off George 
from Amelia. But the fact is, that every day and always, this love- 
smitten and middle-aged gentleman was thinking about Mrs. 
Osborne, and his whole heart was bent upon doing her good. He 
coaxed, wheedled, cajoled, and complimented Jos Sedley with a 
perseverance and cordiality of which he was not aware himself, veiy 
likely ; but some men who have unmarried sisters or daughters even, 
may remember how uncommonly agreeable gentlemen are to the 
male relations when they are courting the females ; and perhaps 
this rogue of a Dobbin was urged by a similar hypocrisy. 

The truth is, when Major Dobbin came on board the Ramchunder, 
ver}" sick, and for the three days she lay in the Madras roads, he 
did not begin to rally, nor did even the appearance and recognition 
of his old acquaintance, Mr. Sedley, on board much cheer him, 
until after a conversation which they had one day, as the major was 
laid languidly on the deck. He said then he thought he was 
doomed ; he had left a little something to his godson in his will ; 
and he trusted I\Irs. Osborne would remember him kindly, and be 
happy in the marriage she was about to make. " ^Married ? not the 
least," Jos answered; " he had heard from her ; she made no mention 
of the marriage, and by the way, it was curious, she wrote to say 
that Major Dobbin was going to be married, and hoped that he 
would be happy." What were the dates of Sedley's letters from 
Europe ? The civilian fetched them. They were two months later 
than the major's ; and the ship's surgeon congratulated himself 
upon the treatment adopted by him toward his new patient, w^ho had 
been consigned to ship-board by the Madras practitioner with very 
small hopes indeed ; for, from that day, the ver}' day that he 
changed the draught, Major Dobbin began to mend. And thus it 
was that deserving officer. Captain Kirk, was disappointed of his 
majority. 

After they passed St. Helena, Major Dobbin's gayety and 
strength was such as to astonish all his fellow passengers. He 
larked with the midshipmen, pla^-ed single-stick with the mates, 
ran up the shrouds like a boy, sang a comic song one night to the 
amusement of the whole party assembled over their grog after 
41 



642 VANITY FAIR. 

supper, and rendered himself so gay, lively, and amiable, that even 
Captain Bragg, who thought there was nothing in his passenger, 
and considered he was a poor-spirited feller at first, was con- 
strained to own that the major was a reserved but well-informed 
and meritorious officer. " He ain't got distingy manners, 
dammy," Bragg observed to his first mate ; " he wouldn't do at 
Government House, Roper, where his lordship and Lady William 
was as kind to me, and shook hands with me before the whole 
company, and asking me at dinner to take beer with him, before 
the commander-in-chief himself ; he ain't got manners, but there's 
something about him — " And thus Captain Bragg showed that 
be possessed discrimination as a man, as well as ability as a com- 
mander. 

But a calm taking place when the Ramchunder was within ten 
day's sail of England, Dobbin became so impatient and ill-humored 
as to surprise those comrades who had before admired his vivacity 
and good temper. He did not recover until the breeze sprang up 
again, and was in a highly excited state when the pilot came on 
board. Good God, how his heart beat as the two friendly spires 
hi Southampton came in sight. 



OUR FRIEND THE MAJOR. 



643 



CHAPTER LVIII. 



OUR FRIEND THE MAJOR. 

UR major had rendered himself 
so popular on board the Ram- 
chunder, that when he and 
Mr. Sedley descended into 
the welcome shore-boat which 
was to take them from the 
ship, the whole crew, men and 
officers, the great Captain 
Bragg himself leading off, 
gave three cheers for Major 
Dobbin, who blushed very- 
much, and ducked his head in 
token of thanks. Jos, who 
very likely thought the cheers 
were for himself, took off his 
gold-laced cap and waved it 
majestically to his friends, 
and they were pulled to shore 
and landed with great dignity 
at the pier, whence they pro- 
ceeded to the Royal George 
Hotel. 

Although the sight of that magnificent round of beef, and the 
silver tankard suggestive of real British home brewed ale and 
porter, which perennially greet the eyes of the traveler returning 
from foreign parts, who enters the coffee-room of the George, are 
so invigorating and delightful, that a man entering such a comfort- 
able, snug, homely English inn, might well like to stop some days 
there, yet Dobbin began to talk about a post-chaise instantly, and 
was no sooner at Southampton than he wished to be on the road 
to London. Jos, however, would not hear of moving that evening. 
Why was he to pass a night in a post-chaise instead of a great 
large undulating downy feather bed which was there ready to 
replace the horrid little narrow crib in which the portly Bengal 
gentleman had been confined during the voyage } He could not 
think of moving till his baggage was cleared, or of traveling until 




644 VANITY FAIR. 

he could do so with his chiUum. So the major was forced to wait 
over night, and dispatched a letter to his family announcing his 
arrival, entreating from Jos a promise to write to his own friends. 
Jos promised, but didn't keep his promise. The captain, the sur- 
geon, and one or two passengers came and dined with our two 
gentlemen at the inn, Jos exerting himself in a sumptuous way in 
ordering the dinner, and promising to go to town the next day with 
the major. The landlord said it did his eyes good to see Mr. Sed- 
ley take off his pint of porter. If I had time, and dared to enter 
into digressions, I would write a chapter about that first pint of 
porter drunk upon English ground. Ah, how good it is ! It is 
worth while to leave home for a year, just to enjoy that one 
draught. 

Major Dobbin made his appearance the next morning, very 
neatly shaved and dressed, according to his wont. Indeed, it was 
so early in the morning that nobody was up in the house except 
that wonderful Boots of an inn, who never seems to want sleep ; 
and the major could hear the snores of the various inmates of the 
house roaring through the corridors as he creaked about in those 
dim passages. Then the sleepless Boots went shirking round from 
door to door, gathering up at each the Bluchers, Wellingtons, 
Oxonians, which stood outside. Then Jos's native servant arose 
and began to get ready his master's ponderous dressing apparatus, 
and prepare his hookah ; then the maid-servants got up, and, meet- 
ing the dark man in the passages, shrieked and mistook him for 
the devil. He and Dobbin stumbled over their pails in the pas- 
sages as they were scouring the decks of the Royal George. When 
the first unshorn waiter appeared and unbarred the door of the inn, 
the major thought that the time for departure was arrived, and 
ordered a post-chaise to be fetched instantly, that they might set off. 

He then directed his steps to Mr. Sedley's room, and opened 
the curtains of the great large family bed wherein Mr. Jos was 
snoring. " Come, up ! Sedley," the major said, " it's time to be 
off ; the chaise will be at the door in half an hour." 

Jos growled from under the counterpane to know what the time 
was ; but when he at last extorted from the blushing major (who 
never told fibs, however they might be to his advantage) what was 
the real hour of the morning, he broke out into a volley of bad 
language, which we will not repeat here, but by which he gave 
Dobbin to understand that he would jeopardy his soul if he got up 
at that moment, that the major might go and be hanged, that he 
would not travel with Dobbin, and that it was most unkind and 
ungentlemanlike to disturb a man out of his sleep in that way ; on 
which the discomfited major was obliged to retreat, leaving Jos to 
resume his interrupted slumbers. 




Mr. Jos's IIOORAUBADAII. 



OUR FRIEND THE MAJOR. 645 

The chaise came up ^presently, and the major would wait no 
longer. 

If he had been an English nobleman traveling on a pleasure 
tour, or a newspaper courier bearing dispatches (government mes- 
sages are generally carried much more quietly), he could not have 
traveled more quickly. The postboys wondered at the fees he 
flung among them. How happy and green the country looked as 
the chaise whirled rapidly from mile-stone to mile-stone, through 
neat country towns where landlords came out to welcome him with 
smiles and bows : b}'^ pretty roadside inns, where the signs hung 
on the elms, and horses and wagoners were drinking under the 
checkered shadow of the trees ; by old halls and parks : rustic 
hamlets clustered round ancient gray churches — and through the 
charming friendly English landscape. Is there any in the world 
like it ? To a traveler returning home it looks so kind — it seems 
to shake hands with you as you pass through it. Well, Major 
Dobbin passed through all this from Southampton to London, and 
Avithout noting much beyond the mile-stones along the road. You 
see he was so eager to see his parents at Camberwell. 

He grudged the time lost between Piccadilly and his old haunt 
at the Slaughters', whither he drove faithfully. Long years had 
passed since he saw it last, since he and George, as young men, 
had enjoyed many a feast, and held many a revel there. He had 
passed into the stage of old fellowhood. His hair was grizzled^ 
and many a passion and feeling of his 3^outh had grown gray in 
that interval. There, however, stood the old waiter at the door, in 
the same greasy black suit, with the same double chin and flaccid 
face, with the same huge bunch of seals at his fob, rattling his 
money in his pockets as before, and receiving the major as if he 
had gone away only a week ago. " Put the major's things in 
twenty-three, that's his room," John said, exhibiting not the least 
surprise. " Roast fowl for your dinner, I suppose. You ain't got 
married 1 They said you was married^ — the Scotch surgeon of 
yours was here. No, it was Captain Humby of the thirty-third, as 
was quartered with the — th in Injee. Like any warm water t 
What do you come in a chay for — ain't the coach good enough ? " 
And with this the faithful waiter, who knew and remembered every 
oflicer who used the house, and with whom ten years were but as 
yesterday, led the way up to Dobbin's old room, where stood the 
neat moreen bed, and the shabby carpet, a thought more dingy ; 
and all the old black furniture covered with chintz, just as the 
major recollected them in his youth. 

He remembered George pacing up and down the room, and 
biting his nails, and swearing that the governor must come round, 
and that if he didn't, he didn't care a straw, on the day before he 



646 VANITY I- AIR 

was married. He could fancy him walking in, banging the door 
of Dobbin's room, and his own hard by 

"You ain't got young," John said, calmly surveying his friend of 
former days. 

Dobbin laughed. " Ten years and a fever don't make a man 
young, John," he said. " It is you that are always young : — No, 
you are always old." 

"What became of Captain Osborne's widow?" John said. 
*' Fine young fellow that. Lord, how he used to spend his money 
He never came back after that day he was married from here. 
He owes me three pounds at this minute. Look here, I have it in 
my book. 'April 10, 1815, Captain Osborne: ^3.' I wonder 
whether his father would pay me," and so saying, John of the 
Slaughters' pulled out the very morocco pocket-book in which he 
had noted his loan to the captain, upon a greasy faded page still- 
extant, with many other scrawled memoranda regarding the by-gone 
frequenters of the house. 

Having inducted his customer into the room, John retired with 
perfect calmness; and Major Dobbin, not without a blush and 
a grin at his own absurdity, chose out of his kit the very smartest 
and most becoming civil costume he possessed, and laughed at his 
own tanned face and gray hair, as he surveyed them in the dreary 
little toilet-glass on the dressing-table. 

" I'm glad old John didn't forget me," he thought. " She'll 
know me, too, I hope." And he sallied out of the inn, bending his 
steps once more in the direction of Brompton. 

Every minute incident of his last meeting with AmeUa was pres- 
ent to the constant man's mind as he walked toward her house.. 
The arch and the Achilles statue were up since he had last been 
in Piccadilly ; a hundred changes had occurred which his eye and. 
mind vaguely noted. He began to tremble as he walked up the 
lane from Brompton, that well-remembered lane leading to the 
street where she lived. Was she going to be married or not ? If 
he were to meet her with the little boy — Good God, what should 
he do ? He saw a woman coming to him with a child of five years 
old — was that she ? He began to shake at the mere possibility. 
When he came up to the row of houses, at last, where she lived, 
and to the gate, he caught hold of it and paused. He might have 
heard the thumping of his own heart. " May God Almighty bless 
her, whatever has happened," he thought to himself. "Pshaw! 
she may be gone from here," he said, and went in through the 
gate. 

The window of the parlor which she used to occupy was opeji, 
and there were no inmates in the room. The major thought he- 
recognized the piano, though, with the picture over it, as it used iCo 



OUR FRIEND THE MAJOR. 647 

be in former days, and his perturbations were renewed. Mr. 
Clapp's brass plate was still on the door, at the knocker of which 
Dobbin performed a summons. 

A buxom-looking lass of sixteen, with bright eyes and purple 
cheeks, came to answer the knock, and looked hard at the major 
as he leaned back against the little porch. 

He was as pale as a ghost, and could hardly falter out the 
words — " Does Mrs. Osborne live here ? " 

She looked him hard in the face for a moment — and then turning 
white too — said, "Lord bless me — it's Major Dobbin." She held 
out both her hands shaking — " Don't you remember me t " she. 
said. " I used to call you Major Sugarplums." On which, and I 
believe it was for the first time that he ever so conducted himself 
in his life, the major took the girl in his arms and kissed her. 
She began to laugh and cry hysterically, and calling out " Ma, 
pa ! " with all her voice, brought up those worthy people, who had 
already been surveying the major from the casement of the orna- 
mental kitchen, and were astonished to find their daughter in the 
little passage in the embrace of a great tall man in a blue frock- 
coat and white duck trousers. 

" I'm an old friend," he said — not without blushing, though. 
V' Don't you remember me, Mrs. Clapp, and those good cakes you 
used to make for tea ? Don't you recollect me, Clapp 1 I'm 
George's godfather, and just come back from India." A great 
shaking of hands ensued — Mrs. Clapp was greatly affected and 
delighted ; she called upon heaven to interpose a vast many times in 
that passage. 

The landlord and landlady of the house led the worthy major 
into the Sedleys' room (whereof he remembered every single article 
of furniture, from the old brass ornamented piano, once a natty 
little instrument, Stothard maker, to the screens and the alabaster 
miniature tombstone, in the midst of which ticked Mr. Sedley's 
gold watch) and there, as he sat down in the lodger's vacant arm- 
chair, the father, the mother, and the daughter, with a thousand 
ejaculatory breaks in the narrative, informed Major Dobbin of 
what we know already, but of particulars in Amelia's history of 
which he was not aware — namely, of Mrs. Sedley's death, of 
George's reconcilement with his grandfather Osborne, of the way 
in which the widow took on at leaving him, and of other particulars 
of her life. Twice or thrice he was going to ask about the marriage 
question, but his heart failed him. He did not care to lay it bare 
to these people. Finally, he was informed that Mrs. O. was gone 
to walk with her pa in Kensington Gardens, whither she always 
went with the old gentleman (who was very weak and peevish 



648 VANITY FAIR. 

now, and led her a sad life, though she behaved to him like an 
angel, to be sure,) of a fine afternoon, after dinner. 

" I'm very much pressed for time," the major said, " and have 
business to-night of importance. I should like to see Mrs. 
Osborne, tho'. Suppose Miss Polly would come with me and 
show me the way." 

Miss Polly was charmed and astonished at this proposal. She 
knew the way. She would show Major Dobbin. She had often 
been with Mr. Sedley when Mrs. O. was gone — was gone Russell 
Square way ; and knew the bench where he liked to sit. She 
bounced away to her ajDartment, and appeared presently in her 
best bonnet and her mamma's yellow shawl and large pebble 
brooch, of which she assumed the loan in order to make herself a 
worthy companion for the major. 

That officer then, in his blue frock-coat and buck-skin gloves, 
gave the young lady his arm, and they walked away very gayly. 
He was glad to have a friend at hand for the scene which he 
dreaded somehow. He asked a thousand more questions from his 
companion about Amelia ; his kind heart grieved to think that she 
should have had to part with her son. How did she bear it ? 
Did she see him often .? Was Mr. Sedley comfortable now in a 
worldly point of view? Polly answered all these questions of 
Major Sugarplums to the very best of her power. 

And in the midst of their walk an incident occurred, which, 
though very simple in its nature, was productive of the greatest 
delight to Major Dobbin. A pale young man with feeble whiskers 
and a stiff white neckcloth came walking down the lane e7i sajid- 
wich — -having a lady, that is, on each arm. One was a tall and 
commanding middle-aged female, with features and a complexion 
similiar to those of the clerg}^man of the Church of England by 
whose side she marched, and the other a stunted little woman with a 
dark face, ornamented by a fine new bonnet and white ribbons, 
and in a smart pelisse, with a rich gold watch in the midst of 
her person. The gentleman, pinioned as he was by these two 
ladies, carried further a parasol, shawl and basket, so that his 
arms were entirely engaged, and of course he was unable to touch 
his hat in acknowledgment of the courtesy with which Miss Mary 
Clapp greeted him. 

He merely bowed his head in reply to her salutation, which the 
two ladies returned with a patronizing air, and at the same time 
looking severely at the individual in the blue coat and bamboo 
cane who accompanied Miss Polly. 

" Who's that ? " asked the major, amused by the group, and 
after he had made way for the three to pass up the lane. Mary 
looked at him rather roguishly. 



OUR FRIEND THE MAJOR. 649 

That is our curate, the Reverend Mr. Binny (a twitch from 
Major Dobbin) and his sister Miss B. Lord bless us, how she 
did used to worret us at Sunday School : and the other lady, the 
one with the cast in her eye, and the handsome watch, is Mrs. 
Binny — Miss Gratis that was ; her pa was a grocer, and kept the 
Little Original Gold Tea Pot in Kensington Gravel Pits. They were 
married last month, and are just come back from Margate. She's 
five thousand pounds to her fortune ; but her and Miss B., who 
made the match, have quarreled already." 

If the major had twitched before, he started now, and slapped 
the bamboo on the ground with an emphasis which made Miss 
Clapp cry, '*Law," and laugh too. He stood for a moment silent 
with open mouth looking after the retreating young couple, while 
Miss Mary told her history ; but he did not hear beyond the 
announcement of the reverend gentleman's marriage ; his head 
was swimming with felicity. After this rencontre he began to walk 
double quick toward the place of his destination ; and yet they 
were too soon (for he was in a great tremor at the idea of a meet- 
ing for which he had been longing any time these ten years) — 
through the Brompton lanes, and entering at the little old portal 
in Kensington Garden wall. 

" There they are," said Miss Polly, and she felt him again 
start back on her arm. She was confident at once of the whole 
business. She knew the story as well as if she had read it in one 
of her favorite novel-books — " Fatherless Fanny," or the '' Scot- 
tish Chiefs." 

" Suppose you were to run on and tell her," the major said. 
Polly ran forward, her yellow shawl streaming in the breeze. 

Old Sedley was seated on a bench, his handkerchief placed over 
his knees, prattling away according to his wont, with some old 
story about old times, to which Amelia had listened, and awarded 
a patient smile many a time before. She could of late think of 
her own affairs, and smile or make other marks of recognition of 
her father's stories, scarcely hearing a word of the old man's tales. 

As Mary came bouncing along, and Amelia caught sight of her, 
she started up from her bench. Her first thought was that some- 
thing had happened to Georgy ; but the sight of the messenger's 
eager and happy face dissipated that fear in the timorous mother's 
bosom. 

" News ! news ! " cried the emissary of Major Dobbin. " He's 
come ! he's come ! " 

"Who is come," said Emmy, still thinking of her son. 

" Look there," answered Miss Clapp, turning round and point- 
mg ; in which direction Amelia looking, saw Dobbin's lean figure 
and long shadow stalking across the grass. Amelia started in her 



OUR FRIEND THE MAJOR. 651 

turn, blushed up, and of course began to cry. At all this snnple 
little creature's fetes the grandes eaux were accustomed to play. 

He looked at her — oh, how fondly — as she came running to- 
ward him, her hands before her, ready to give them to him. She 
wasn't changed. She was a little pale ; a little stouter in figure. 
Her eyes were the same, the kind, trustful eyes. There were 
scarce three lines of silver in her soft brown hairc She gave him 
both her hands as she looked up smiling through her tears into his 
honest homely face. He took the two little hands between his two, 
and held them there. He was speechless for a moment. Why did 
he not take her in his arms, and sw^ear that he would never leave 
her ? She must have yielded ; she could not but have obeyed him. 

" I — I've another arrival to announce," he said, after a pause. 

" Mrs. Dobbin ? " Amelia said, making a movement back — Why 
didn't he speak t 

" No," he said, letting her hands go ; " who has told you those 
lies t I mean your brother Jos came in the same ship with me, 
and is come home to make you all happy." 

" Papa, papa ! " Emmy cried out, " here is news ! My brother 
is in England. He is come to take care of you. Here is Major 
Dobbin." 

Mr. Sedley started up, shaking a great deal, and gathering up 
his thoughts. Then he stepped forward and made an old-fashioned 
bow to the major, whom he called Mr. Dobbin, and hoped his wor- 
thy father, Sir William, was quite well. He proposed to call upon 
Sir William, who had done him the honor of a visit a short time 
ago. Sir William had not called upon the old gentleman for eight 
years — it was that visit he was thinking of returning. 

" He is very much shaken," Emmy whispered, as Dobbin went 
up and cordially shook hands with the old man. 

Although he had such particular business in London that even- 
ing, the major consented to forego it upon Mr. Sedley's invitation 
to him to come home and partake of tea. Amelia put her arm un- 
der that of her young friend with the yellow shawl, and headed the 
party on their return homeward, so that Mr. Sedley fell to Dobbin's 
share. The old man walked very slowly, and told a number of 
ancient histories about himself and his poor Bessy, his former 
prosperity, and his bankruptcy. His thoughts, as is usual with failing 
old men, were quite in former times. The present, with the excep- 
tion of the one catastrophe which he felt, he knew little about. The 
major was glad to let him talk on. His eyes were fixed upon the 
figure in front of him — the dear little figure always present to his 
imagination and in his prayers, and visiting his dreams wakeful or 
slumbering. 

Amelia was very happy, smiling, and active all that evening ; 



652 VANITY FAIR. 

performing her duties as hostess of the little entertainment with 
the utmost grace and propriety, as Dobbin thought. His eyes fol- 
lowed her about as they sat in the twilight. How many a time 
had he longed for that moment, and thought of her far away under 
hot winds and in weary marches, gentle and happy, kindly minis- 
tering to the wants of old age, and decorating poverty with sweet 
submission — as he saw her now. I do not say that his taste was 
the highest, or that it is the duty of great intellects to be content 
with a bread-and-butter paradise, such as sufficed our simple old 
friend ; but his desires were of this sort, whether for good or bad ; 
and, with Amelia to help him, he was as ready to drink as many 
cups of tea as Doctor Johnson 

Amelia seeing this propensity, laughingly encouraged it ; and 
looked exceedingly roguish as she administered to him cup after 
cup. It is true she did not know that the major had had no din- 
ner, and that the cloth was laid for him at Slaughters', and a plate 
laid thereon to mark that the table was retained, in that very box 
in which the major and George had sat many a time carousing, 
when she was a child just come home from Miss Pinkerton's 
school. 

The first thing Mrs. Osbc -ne showed the major was Georgy's 
miniature, for which she ran up stairs on her arrival at home. It 
was not half handsome enough ci course for the boy, but wasn't it 
noble of him to think of bringing it to his mother 1 While her 
papa was awake she did not talk much about Georg}^ To hear 
about Mr. Osborne and Russell Square was not agreeable to the 
old man, who very likely was unconscious that he had been living 
for some months past mainly on the bounty of his richer rival ; 
and lost his temper if allusion was made to the other. 

Dobbin told him all, and a little more perhaps than all, that had 
happened on board the Ramchunder ; and exaggerated Jos's 
benevolent dispositions toward his father, and resolution to make 
him comfortable in his old days. The truth is, that during the 
voyage the major had impressed this duty most strongly upon his 
fellow-passenger and extorted promises from him that he w^ouid 
take charge of his sister and her child. He soothed Jos's irritation 
with regard to the bills which the old gentleman had drawn upon 
him, gave a laughing account of his own sufferings on the same 
score, and of the famous consignment of wdne wdth which the old 
man had favored him ; and brought Mr. Jos, who was by no means 
an ill-natured person when well pleased and moderately flattered, 
to a ver}^ good state of feeling regarding his relatives in Europe. 

And in fine I am ashamed to say that the major stretched the 
truth so far as to tell old Mr. Sedley that it was mainly a desire to 
see his parent which brought Jos once more to Europe. 



OUR FRIEND THE MAJOR. 653 

At his accustomed hour Mr. Sedley began to doze in his chair, 
and then it was Amelia's opportunity to commence her conversa- 
tion, which she did with great eagerness ; it related exclusively to 
Georgy. She did not talk at all about her own sufferings at break- 
ing from him, for indeed, this worthy woman, though she was half- 
killed by the separation from the child, yet thought it was very 
wicked of her to repine at losing him ; but every^thing concerning 
him, his virtues, talents, and prospects, she poured out. She 
described his angelic beauty ; narrated a hundred instances of his 
generosity and greatness of mind while living with her ; how a 
royal duchess had stopped and admired him at Kensington Gar- 
dens ; how splendidly he was cared for now^, and how he had a 
groom and a pony ; what quickness and cleverness he had, and 
what a prodigiously well-read and delightful person the Reverend 
Lawrence Veal was, George's master. " He knows everything,'^ 
Amelia said. " He has the most delightful parties. You who are 
so learned yourself, and have read so much, and are so clever and 
accomplished — don't shake your head and say no — he always used 
to say you were — you will be charmed with Mr. Veal's parties. 
The last Tuesday in every month. He says there is no place in 
the bar or the senate that Georgy may not aspire to. Look here," 
and she went to the piano-drawer, and drew out a theme of 
Georgy's composition. This great effort of genius, which is still 
in the possession of George's mother, is as follows : 

On Selfishness. — Of all the vices which degrade the human character, Selfish- 
ness is the most odious and contemptible. An undue love of Self leads to the 
most monstrous crimes ; and occasions the greatest misfortunes both in States 
and families. As a selfish man will impoverish his family and often bring them 
to ruin : so a selfish king brings ruin on his people and often plunges them into 
war. 

Example : The selfishness of 'Achilles, as remarked by the poet Homer, oc- 
casioned a thousand woes to the Greeks — (Hom. 11. A. 2). The selfishness of 
the late Napoleon Bonaparte occasioned innumerable wars in Europe, and caus- 
ed him to perish, himself, in a miserable island — that of Saint Helena in the 
Atlantic Ocean. 

We see by these examples that we are not to consult our own interest and 
ambition, but that we are to consider the interests of others as well as our own. 

Athene House, 24th April, 1827. George S. Osborne. 

" Think of him writing such a hand and quoting Greek^ too, at 
his age," the delighted mother said. " O William," she added, 
holding out her hand to the major, "what a treasure heaven has 
given me in that boy ! . He is the comfort of my life, and he is the 
image of — of him that's gone ! " 

" Ought I to be angry with her for being faithful to him ? " 
William thought. " Ought I to be jealous of my friend in the 
grave, or hurt that such a heart as Amelia's can love only once 



654 VANITY FAIR. 

and forever ? O George, George, how little you knew the prize you 
had, though ! " 

This sentiment passed rapidly through William's mind as he was 
holding Amelia's hand, while the handkerchief was veiling her 
eyes. 

" Dear friend," she said, pressing the hand which held hers, 
"how good, how kind you always have been to me ! See ! papa is 
stirring. You will go and see Georg)- to-morrow, won't you ? " 

" Not to-morrow," said poor old Dobbin. "I have business." 

He did not like to own that he had not as yet been to his pa- 
rents and his dear sister Anne — a remissness for which I am sure 
every well-regulated person will blame the major. And presently 
he took his leave, leaving his address behind him for Jos, against 
the latter's arrival And so the first day was over, and he had 
seen her. 

When he got back to the Slaughters' the roast fowl was of course 
cold, in which condition he ate it for supper. 

Knowing what early hours his family kept, and that it would be 
needless to disturb their slumbers at so late an hour, it is on rec- 
ord that Major Dobbin treated himself to half-price at the Hay- 
market Theater that evening, where let us hope he enjoyed him- 
self. 



THE OLD PIANO. 



65s 



CHAPTER LIX. 

THE OLD PIANO. 

L— ,|| — 1 HE major's visit left old John 
Sedley in a great state oi 
agitation and excitement. 
His daughter could not in- 
duce him to settle down to 
his customary occupations 
or amusements that night. 
He passed the evening fum- 
bling among his boxes and 
desks, untying his papers 
with trembUng hands, and 
sorting and arranging them 
against Jos's arrival. He 
had them in the greatest 
order — his tapes and his 
files, his receipts, and his 
letters with lawyers and cor- 
respondents ; the documents 
relative to the wine project 
(which failed from a most 
unaccountable accident, af- 
ter commencing with the 
most splendid prospects), 
the coal project (which only 
a want of capital prevented 
from becoming the most successful scheme ever put before the 
public), the patent saw-mills and sawdust consolidation project, etc., 
etc. — All night, uDtil a very late hour, he passed in the preparation 
of these documents, trembling about from one room to another, 
with a quivering candle and shaky hands. Here's the wine papers, 
here's the sawdust, here's the coals ; here's my letters to Calcutta 
and Madras, and replies from Major Dobbin, C.B., and Mr. Joseph 
Sedley to the same. 

" He shall find no irregularity about me, Emmy," the old gentle- 
man said. 




656 J'AXITY FAl-u 

Emmy smiled. '' I don't think Jos will care about seeing those 
papers, papa/' she said. 

" You don't know anything about business, my dear," answered 
the sire, shaking his head with an important air. And it must be 
confessed that on this point Emmy was ver}' ignorant, and that is 
a pity, some people are so knowing. All these twopenny docu- 
ments arranged on a side-table, old Sedley covered them carefullv 
over with a clean bandanna handkerchief (one out of Major 
Dobbin's lot), and enjoined the maid and landlady of the house, 
in the most solemn way, not to disturb those papers, which were 
arranged for the arrival of Mr. Joseph Sedley the next morning, 
" Mr. Joseph Sedley of the Honorable East India Company's Ben- 
gal Civil Ser^-ice." 

Amelia found him up very early the next morning, more eager, 
more hectic, and more shaky than ever. " I didn't sleep much, 
Emmy, my dear," he said. " I was thinking of my poor Bessy. 
I wish she was alive, to ride in Jos's carriage once again. She 
kept her own, and became it ver}- well." And his eyes filled with 
tears, which trickled down his furrowed face. Amelia wiped them 
away, and smilingly kissed him, and tied the old man's neckcloth 
in a' smart bow and put his brooch into his best shirt-frill, in which, 
in his Sunday suit of mourning, he sat from six o'clock in the 
morning awaiting the arrival of his son. 

There are some splendid tailor shops in the High Street of 
Southampton, in the fine plate-glass windows of which hang gor- 
geous waistcoats of -all sorts, of silk and velvet and gold and crim- 
son, and pictures of the last new fashions, in which those wonderful 
gentleman with quizzing-glasses, and holding on to little boys 
with the exceeding large eyes and curly hair, ogle ladies in riding- 
habits prancing by the statue of Achilles at Apsley House. Jos, 
although provided with some of the most splendid vests that Cal- 
cutta could furnish, thought he could not go to town until he was 
supphed with one or two of these garments, and selected a crim- 
son satin, embroidered with gold butterflies and a black and red 
velvet tartaii with white stripes and a rolling collar, with which, 
and a rich blue satin stock and a gold pin, consisting of a five- 
barred gate with a horseman in pink enamel jumping over it, he 
thought he might make his entr}^ into London with some dignity. 
For Jos's former sh}Tiess and blundering, blushing timidity had 
given way to a more candid and courageous self-assertion of his 
worth. " I don't care about owning it," Waterloo Sedley would 
say to his friends, "I am a dressy man." And though rather un- 
easy if the ladies looked at him at the Government House balls, 
and though he blushed and turned away alarmed under their 
glances, it was chiefly from a dread lest they should make love to 



THE OLD PIANO. 



657 



liim that he avoided them, being averse to marriage altogether. 
But there was no such swell in Calcutta as Waterloo Sedley, I 
have heard say ; and he had the handsomest turn-out, gave the best 
bachelor dinners, and had the finest plate in the whole place. 

To make these vvaistcoats for a man cf his size and dignity took 
at least a day, part of which he employed in hiring a servant to 
wait upon him and his native, and in instructing the agent who 
cleared his baggage, his boxes, his books, which he never read; 




his chests of mangoes, chutney, and currie powders ; his shawls for 
presents to people whom he didn't know as yet ; and the rest of 
his Persicos apparatus. 

At length he drove leisurely to London on the third day, and in 
the new waistcoat ; the native with chattering teeth, shuddering in 
42 



658 VANITY FAIR. 

a shawl on the box by the side of the new European servant; Jos 
jDuffing his pipe at intervals within, and looking so majestic, that 
the little boys cried Hooray, and many people thought he must be 
a governor-general. He, I promise, did not decline the obsequious 
invitation of the landlords to alight and refresh himself in the neat 
country towns. Having partaken of a copious breakfast, with fish, 
and rice, and hard eggs, at Southampton, he had so far rallied at 
Winchester as to think a glass of sherry necessary. At Alton he 
stepped out of the carriage at his servant's request, and imbibed 
some of the ale for which the place is famous. At Farnham he 
stopped to view the Bishop's Castle, and to partake of a light din- 
ner of stewed eels, veal cutlets, and French beans, with a bottle of 
claret. He w^as cold over Bagshot Heath, where the native chat- 
tered more and more, and Jos Sahib took some brandy and water ; 
in fact, when he drove into town he was as full of wine, beer, meat, 
pickles, cherry-brandy, and tobacco, as the steward's cabin of a 
steam-packet. It was evening when his carriage thundered up to 
the little door in Brompton, whither the affectionate fellow drove 
first, and before hieing to the apartments secured for him by Mr. 
Dobbin at the Slaughters'. 

All the faces in the street were in the windows ; the little maid- 
servant flew to the wicket-gate, the Mesdames Clapp looked out 
from the casement of the ornamental kitchen ; Emmy, in a great flut- 
ter, was in the passage among the hats and coats, and old Sedley in 
the parlor inside, shaking all over. Jos descended from the post- 
chaise and down the creaking, swaying steps in awful state, supported 
by the new valet from Southampton and the shuddering native, w^hose 
brow^n face was now livid with cold, and of the color of a turkey's 
gizzard. He created an immense sensation in the passage presently, 
where Mrs. and Miss Clapp, ccming perhaps to listen at the parlor 
door, found Loll Jewab shaking upon the hall bench under the coats, 
moaning in a strange piteous way, and showing his yellow eyeballs 
and white teeth. 

For, you see, we have adroitly shut the door upon the meeting 
between Jos and the old father, and the poor little gentle sister inside. 
The old man was very much affected ; so, of course, was his daugh- 
ter ; nor was Jos without feeling. In that long absence of ten years, 
the most selfish will think about home and early ties. Distance 
sanctifies both. Long brooding over those lost pleasures exaggerates 
their charm and sweetness. Jos was unaffectedly glad to see and 
shake the hand of his father, between whom and himself there had 
been a coolness — glad to see his little sister, whom he remembered 
so pretty and smiling, and pained at the alteration which time, grief, 
and misfortune had made in the shattered old man, Emmy had 
come out to the door in her black clothes and whispered ko him of 



iiiiiit. , I* 

::iij!iiieiilll 




66d vanity fair. 

her mother's death, and not to speak of it to their father. There 
was no need of this caution, for the elder Sedley himself began im- 
mediately to speak of the event, and prattled about it, and wept 
over it plenteously. It shocked the Indian not a httle, and made 
him think of himself less than the poor fellow was accustomed to 
do. ^ 

The result of the interview must have been vety satisfactory, for 
when Jos had re-ascended his post-chaise, and had driven away to his 
hotel, Emmy embraced her father tenderly, appealing to him with an 
air of triumph, and asking the old man whether she did not always 
say that her brother had a good heart ? 

Indeed, Joseph Sedley, affected by the humble position in which 
he found his relations, and in the expansiveness and overflowing of 
heart occasioned by the first meeting, declared that they should 
never suffer want or discomfort any more, that he was at home for 
some time at any rate, during which his house and everything he 
had should be theirs ; and that Amelia would look very pretty at 
the head of his table — until she would accept one of her own. 

She shook her head sadly, and had, as usual, recourse to the 
water-works. She knew what he meant. She and her young con- 
fidant, Miss Mary, had talked over the matter most fully, the very 
night of the major's visit; beyond which time the impetuous Polly 
could not refrain from talking of the discovery which she had made, 
and describing the start and tremor of joy by which Major Dobbin 
betrayed himself when Mr. Binny passed with his bride, and the 
major learned that he had no longer a rival to fear. " Didn't you 
see how he shook all over when you asked if he was married, and 
he said ' Who told you those lies ? ' O ma'am," Polly said, " he 
never kept his eyes off you ; and I'm sure he's grown gray a-think- 
ing of you." 

But Amelia, looking up at her bed, over which hung the portraits 
of her husband and son, told her young protegee., never, never to 
speak on that subject again ; that Major Dobbin had been_her 
husband's dearest friend, and her own and George's most kind and 
affectionate guardian ; and that she loved him as a brother — but 
that a woman who had been married to such an angel as that, and 
she pointed to the wall, could never think of any other union. 
Poor Polly sighed ; she thought what she should do if young Mr. 
Tomkins, at the surgery, who always looked at her so at church, 
and who, by those mere aggressive glances had put her timorous 
little heart into such a flutter that she was ready to surrender at 
once — what she should do if he were to die } She knew he was 
consumptive, his cheeks were so red, and he was so uncommon thin 
in the waist. 



THE OLD PIANO. 65i 

Not that Emmy, being made aware of the honest major's passion, 
rebuffed him in any way, or felt displeased with him. Such an at- 
tachment from so true and loyal a gentleman could make no woman 
angry. Desdemona was not angry with Cassio, though there is very 
little doubt she saw the lieutenant's partiality for her (and I for my 
part believe that many more things took place in that said affair 
than the worthy Moorish officer ever knew of) ; why, Miranda was 
even very kind to Caliban, and we may be pretty sure for the same 
reason. Not that she would encourage him in the least — the poor 
uncouth monster — of course not. No more would Emmy by any 
means encourage her admirer, the major. She would give him 
that friendly regard, which so much excellence and fidelity merited ; 
she would treat him with perfect cordiality and frankness until he 
made his proposals ; and then it would be time enough for her to 
speak, and to put an end to hopes which never could be realized. 

She slept, therefore, very soundly that evening, after the conver- 
sation with Miss Polly, and was more than ordinarily happy, in 
sjDite of Jos's delaying. " I am glad he is not going to marry that 
Miss O'Dowd," she thought, " Colonel O'Dowd never could have 
a sister fit for such an accomplished man as Major William." Who 
was there among her little circle vvho would make him a good wife ? 
Not Miss Binn}^, she was too old and ill-tempered ; Miss Osborne ? 
— too old too. Little Polly was too young, Mrs. Osborne could 
not find anybody to suit the major before she went to sleep. 

However when the postman made his appearance, the little party 
were put out of suspense by the receipt of a letter from Jos to his 
sister, who announced that he felt a little fatigued after his voyage, 
and should not be able to move on that day, but that he would 
leave Southampton early the next morning, and be with his father 
and mother at evening. Amelia, as she read out the letter to her 
father, paused, over the latter word ; her brother, it was clear, did 
not know what had happened in the family. Nor could he ; for 
the fact is that, thor.c^h the major rightly suspected that his travel- 
ing companion never would be got into motion in so short a space 
as twenty-four hours, and would find some excuse for delaying, yet 
Dobbin had not written to Jos to inform him of the calamity which 
had befallen the Sedley family; being occupied in talking with 
Amelia until long after post-hour. 

The same morning brought Major Dobbin a letter to the Slaugh- 
ters' coffee-house from his friend at Southam^Dton ; begging dear 
Dob to excuse Jos for being in a rage when awakened the clay be- 
fore (he had a confounded headache, and was just in his first sleep), 
and entreating Dob to engage comfortable rooms at the Slaughters' 
for Mr. Sedley and his servants. The major had become necessary 
to Jos during the voyage. He was attached to him and hung upon 



662 VANITY FAIR. 

him. The other passengers were awa} to London. Young Ricketts 
and little Chaffers went away on the coach that day — B.icketts on 
the box, and taking the rems from Botley ; the doctor was off to his 
family at Portsea : Bragg gone to town to his co-partners ; and the 
first mate busy m the unloading of the Ramchunder. Mr. Jos 
was very lonely at Southampton, and got the landlord of the George 
Lo take a glass of wine with him that day : at the ver}' hour at which 
Major Dobbin was seated at the table of his father, Sir William, 
where his sister found out (for it was impossible for the major to 
tell fibs) that he had been to see Mrs. George Osborne. 

Jos was so comfortably situated in St. Martin's Lane, he could 
enjoy his hookah there with such perfect ease, and could swagger- 
down to the theaters, when minded, so agreeably, that, perhaps, 
he would have remained altogether at the Slaughters' had not his 
friend, the major, been at his elbow. That gentleman W'Ould not 
let the Bengalee rest until he had executed his promise of having a 
home for Amelia and his father. Jos was a soft fellow in anybody's 
hands ; Dobbin most active in anybody's concerns but his ow^n ; the 
civilian was, therefore, an easy victim to the guileless arts of this 
good-natured diplomatist, and was ready to do, to purchase, hire,, 
or relinquish whatever his friend thought fit. Loll Jewab, of whom 
the boys about St. Martin's Lane used to make cruel fun whenever 
he showed his dusky countenance in the street, was sent back to 
Calcutta in the Lady Kickiebury East Indiaman, in which Sir Wil- 
liam Dobbin had a share ; having previously taught Jos's European 
the art of preparing curries, pilaus, and pipes. It was a matter of 
great delight and occupation to Jos to superintend the building of 
a smart chariot, which he and the major ordered in the neighboring 
Long Acre ; and a pair of handsome horses were jobbed, with which. 
Jos drove about in state in the park, or to call upon his Indian 
friends. Amelia was not seldom by his side on these excursions,, 
when also Major Dobbin w^oukl be seen in the back seat of the 
carriage. At other times old Sedley and his daughter took advan- 
tage of it ; and Miss Clapp, who frequently accompanied her friend, 
had great pleasure in being recognized as she sat in the carriage, 
dressed in the famous yellow shawl, by the young gentleman at the 
surger)', whose face might commonly be seen over the windov/- 
blinds as she passed. 

Shortly after Jos's first appearance at Brompton, a dismal scene, 
indeed, took place at that humble cottage, at which the Sedleys 
had passed the last ten years of their life. Jos's carriage (the tem- 
porar}-' one, not the chariot under construction) arrived one day 
and carried off old Sedley and his daughter — to return no more. 
The tears that were shed by the landlady and the landlady's daugh- 



THE OLD PIANO. CS3 

ter at that event were as genuine tears of sorrow as any that have 
been outpoured in the course of this history. In their long acquaint- 
anceship and intimacy they could not recall a harsh word that had 
been uttered by Amelia. She had been all sweetness and kindness, 
always thankful, always gentle, even when Mrs. Clapp lost her own 
temper, and pressed for the rent. When the kind creature was go- 
ing away for good and all, the landlady reproached herself bitterly 
for ever having used a rough expression to her — how she wept, as 
they stuck up with wafers on the window, a paper notifying that the 
little rooms so long occupied were to let ! They never would have 
such lodgers again, that was quite clear. After life proved the 
truth of this melancholy prophecy ; and Mrs. Clapp revenged her- 
self for the deterioration of mankind by levying the most savage 
contributions upon, the tea-caddies and legs of mutton of her 
locataires. Most of them scolded and grumbled ; some of them 
did not pay; none of them stayed. The landlady might well 
regret those old, old friends who had left her. 

As for Miss ]Mary, her sorrow at Amelia's departure was such as I 
shall not attempt to depict. From childhood ujDward she had 
been with her daih^, and had attached herself so passionately to 
that dear good lady, that when the grand barouche came to carry 
her off into splendor, she fainted in the arms of her friend, who 
was indeed scarcely less affected than the good-natured girl. 
Amelia loved her like a daughter. During eleven years the girl 
had been her constant friend and associate. The separation was a 
very jDainful one indeed to her. But it was of course arranged 
that Alary was to come and stay often at the grand new house 
whither Mrs. Osborne was going; and where Mary was sure she 
would never be so happy as she had been in their humble cot, as 
Miss Clapp called it, in the language of the novels which she 
loved. 

Let us hope she was wrong in her judgment. Poor Emmy's 
days of happiness had been ver}^ few in that humble cot. A gloomy 
fate had oppressed her there. She never liked to come back to 
the house after she had left it, or to face the landlady who had 
tyrannized over her when ill-humored and unpaid, or when pleased 
had treated her with a coarse familiarity scarcely less odious. 
Her servility and fulsome compliments when Emm}' was in pros- 
perity were not more to that lady's liking. She cast about notes of 
admiration all over the new house, extolling every article of furni- 
ture or ornament; she fingered Mrs. Osborne's dresses, and 
calculated their price. Nothing could be too good for that sweet 
lady, she vowed and protested. But in the vulger sycophant who 
now paid court to her, Emmy always remembered the coarse 
tyrant who had made her miserable many a time, to whom she 



664 VANITY FAIR. 

had been forced to put up petitions for time, when the rent was 
overdue : who cried out at her extravagance if she bought dehcacies 
for her ailing mother or father ; who had seen her humbled and 
trampled upon her. 

Nobody ever heard of these griefs, which had been part of our 
poor little woman's lot in life. She kept them secret from her 
father, whose improvidence was the cause of much of her misery. 
She had to bear all the blame of his misdoings, and indeed was so 
utterly gentle and humble as to be made by nature for a victim. 

I hope she is not to suifer much more of that hard usage. And 
as in all griefs there is said to be some consolation, I may mention 
that poor Mary, when left at her friend's departure in a hysterical 
conchtion, was placed under the medical treatment of the young 
fellow from the surgery, under whose care she rallied after a short 
period. Emmy, when she went away from Brompton, endowed 
Mary with every article of furniture that the house contained ; 
only taking away her pictures (the two pictures over the bed) and 
her piano — that little old piano which had now passed into a 
plaintive jingling old age, but which she loved for reasons of her 
own. She was a child when first she played on it; and her 
parents gave it her. It had been given to her again since, 
as the reader may remember, when her father's house was gone to 
ruin, and the instrument was recovered out of the wreck. 

Major Dobbin was exceedingly pleased when, as he was super- 
intending the arrangements of Jos's new house, which the major 
insisted should be very handsome and comfortable, the cart ar- 
rived from Brompton, bringing the trunks and band-boxes of the 
emigrants from that village, and with them the old piano. Amelia* 
would have it up in her sitting-room, a neat little apartment on the 
second floor, adjoining her father's chamber ; and where the old 
gentleman sat commonly of evenings. 

When the men appeared then bearing this old music-box, and 
Amelia gave orders that it should be placed in the chamber afore- 
said, Dobbin was quite elated. " I'm glad you've kept it," he 
said, in a very sentimental manner. " I was afraid you didn't 
care about it." 

" I value it more than anything I have in the world," saic; 
Amelia. 

^'' Do you, Amelia ? '* cried the major. The fact was, as he had 
bought it himself, though he never said anything about it, it never 
entered into his head to suppose that Emmy should think any- 
body else was the purchaser, and as a matter of course he fancied 
that she knew the gift came from him. " Do you, Amelia ? " he 
said ; and the question, the great question of all, was trembling ou 
his lips, when Emmy replied : 



THE OLD PIAXO. 665 

"'Can I do othenvise ? — did not he give it to me ? " 

" I did not know," said poor old Dob, and his countenance fell. 

Emmy did not note the circumstance at the time, nor take 
immediate heed of the dismal expression which honest Dobbin's 
countenance assumed ; but she thought of it afterward. And 
then it struck her, with inexpressible pain and mortification, too, 
that it was William who was the giver of the piano ; and not 
George, as she had fancied. It was not George's gift ; the only 
one which she had received from her lover, as she thought — the 
thing she had cherished beyond all others — her dearest relic and 
prize. She had spoken to it about George ; played his favorite airs 
upon it ; sat for long evenings, touching to the best of her simjDle 
art melancholy harmonies on the keys, and weeping over them in 
silence. It was not George's relic. It was valueless now. The 
next time that old Sedley asked her to play, she said it was shock- 
ingly out of tune, that she had a headache, that she couldn't play. 

Then, according to her custom, she rebuked herself for her 
pettishness and ingratitude, and determined to make a reparation 
to honest William for the slight she had not expressed to him, but 
had felt for his piano. A few days afterward, as they were seated 
in the drawing-room, where Jos had fallen asleep with great comfort 
after dinner, Amelia said with rather a faltering vclce to Major 
Dobbin : 

" I have to beg your pardon for something." 

" About what 1 " said he. 

" About — about that little square piano. I never thanked you 
for' it when you gave it me; many, many years ago, before I was 
married. I thought somebody else had given it. Thank you, 
William. She held out her hand ; but the poor little woman's heart 
was bleeding ; and as for her eyes, of course they were at their 
work. 

But William could hold no more. " Amelia, Amelia," he said, 
" I did buy it for you. I loved you then as I do now. I must 
tell you. I think I loved you from the first minute that I saw you, 
when George brought me to your house, to show me the Amelia 
he was engaged to. You were but a girl, in white, with large ring- 
lets ; you came down singing — do you remember .? — and we went 
to Vauxhall. Since then I have thought of but one woman in the 
world, and that was you. I think there is no hour in the day for 
twelve years that I have not thought of you. I came to tell you 
this before I went to India, but you didn't care, and I hadn't the 
heart to speak. You did not care whether I stayed or went." 

" I was veiy ungrateful," Amelia said. 

"No; only mdifferent," Dobbin continued, desperately. "I 
have nothing to make a woman be otherwise. I know what vou 



666 VANITY FAIR. 

are feeling now. You are hurt in your heart at the discovery 
about the piano ; and that it came from me and not from George. 
I forgot, or I should never have spoken of it so. It is for me to 
ask your pardon for being a fool for a moment, and thinking that 
3'ears of constancy and devotion might have pleaded with you." 

" It is you who are cruel now," Amelia said with some spirit. 
^' George is my husband, here and in heaven. How could I love 
any other but him ? I am his now as when you first saw me, dear 
William. It was he who told me how good and generous you were, 
and who taught me to love you as a brother. Have you not been 
everything to me and my boy ? Our dearest, truest, kindest friend 
and protector ? Had you come a few months sooner perhaps you 
might have spared me that — that dreadful parting. Oh, it nearly 
killed me, William — but you didn't come, though I wished and 
prayed for you to come, and they took him too away from me. 
Isn't he a noble boy, William .? Be his friend still, and mine " — 
and here her voice broke, and she hid her face on his shoulder. 

The major folded his arms round her, holding her to him as if 
she was a child, and kissed her head. " I will not change, dear 
Amelia," he said. " I ask for no more than your love. I think I 
■would not have it otherwise. Only let me stay near you and see 
you often." 

" Yes, often," Amelia said. And so William was at liberty to 
look and long ; as the poor boy at school who has no money may 
sigh after the contents of the tart-woman's tray. 



RETURNS TO THE GENTEEL H'ORLD, 



667 



CHAPTER LX. 



RETURNS TO THE GENTEEL WORLD. 



OOD fortune now 
begins to smile 
upon Amelia. 
We are glad to 
get her out of that 
low sphere in 
which she has 
been creeping 
hitherto, and in- 
troduce her into 
a polite circle ; 
not so grand and 
refined as that in 
which our other 
female friend, 
Mrs. Becky, has 
appeared, but 
still having no 
small preten- 
sions to gentility 
and fashion. 
Jos's friends 
were all from the 
three presiden- 
cies, and his new 

house was in the comfortable Anglo-Indian district of which Moira 
Place is the center. Minto Square, Great Clive Street, Warren 
Street, Hastings Street, Ochterlony Place, Plassy Square, Assaye 
Terrace (" Gardens " was a felicitous word not applied to stucco 
houses with asphalte terraces in front, so early as 1827) — who 
does not know these respectable abodes of the retired Indian aris- 
tocracy, and the quarter which Mr. Wenham calls the Black Hole, 
in a word ? Jos's position in life was not grand enough to entitle 
him to a house in Moira Place, where none can live but retired 
members of council and partners of Indian firms (who break after 
having settled a hundred thousand pounds on their wives, and 




668 VAXITY FAIR. 

retire into comparative penur}- to a country place and four thousand 
a year). He engaged a comfortable house of a second or third- 
rate order in Gillespie Street, purchasing the carpets, costly mir- 
rors, and handsome and appropriate planned furniture by Sed- 
dons, from the assignees of ^Ir. Scape, lately adniitted partner into 
the great Calcutta house of Fogle, Fake, and Cracksman, in which 
poor Scape had embarked seventy thousand pounds, the earnings 
of a long and honorable life, taking Fake's place, who retired to a 
prmcely park in Sussex (the Fogies have been long out of the firm, 
and Sir Horace Fogle is about to be raised to the peerage as Baron 
Bandanna) — admitted, I say, partner into the great agency house 
of Fogle and Fake, tsvo years before it failed for a million, and 
plunged half the Indian public into misery and ruin. 

Scape, ruined, honest, and broken-hearted at sixty-five years of 
age, went out to Calcutta to wind up the affairs of the house. Wal- 
ter Scape was withdrawn from Eton, and put into a merchant's 
house. Florence Scape, Fanny Scape, and their mother faded 
away to Boulogne, and will be heard of no more. To be brief, 
Jos stepped in and bought their carpets and sideboards, and ad- 
mired himself in the mirrors which had reflected their kind, hand- 
some faces. The Scape tradesmen, all honorably paid, left their 
cards, and were eager to supply the new household. The large 
men in white waistcoats who waited at Scape's dinners, greengro- 
cers, bank-porters, and milkmen in their private capacity, left their 
addresses and ingratiated themselves with the butler. Mr. Chum- 
ney, the chimney purifier, who had swept the last three families, 
tried to coax the butler and the boy under him, whose dut}' it was 
to go out, covered with buttons and with stripes down his trousers, 
for the protection of Mrs. Amelia whenever she chose to walk 
abroad. 

It was a modest establishment. The butler was Jos's valet also, 
and never was more drunk than a butler in a small family should 
be who has a proper regard for his master's wine. Emmy was 
supplied with a maid, grown on Sir William Dobbin's suburban 
estate ; a good girl, whose kindness and humility disarmed Mrs. 
Osborne, who was at first terrified at the idea of having a servant 
to wait upon herself, who did not in the least know how to use one 
and who always spoke to domestics with the most reverential polite- 
ness. But this maid was ver}- useful in the family, in dexterously 
tending old Mr. Sedley, who kept almost entirely to his own quar- 
ter of the house, and never mixed in any of the gay doings which 
took place there. 

Numbers of people came to see !Mrs. Osborne. Lady Dobbin 
and daughters were delighted at her change of fortune, and waited 
upon her. Miss Osborne from Russell Square came in her grand 



RETURXS TO THE CEXTEEL WORLD. 660, 

chariot with the flaming hammer-cloth emblazoned with the Leeds 
arms. Jos was reported to be immense!}- rich. Old Osborne had 
no objection that Georg}- should inherit his uncle's property as 
well as his own. " Damn it, we will make a man of the feller," 
he said ; " and I'll see him in parliament before I die. You 
may go and see his mother, Miss O., though I'll never set eyes on 
her ; " and Miss Osborne came. Emm}-, you may be sure, was 
very glad to see her, and so be brought nearer to George. That 
young fellow was allowed to come much more frequently than 
before to visit his mother. He dined once or twice a week in 
Gillespie Street, and bullied the servants and his relations there, 
just as he did in Russell Square. 

He was always respectful to ^lajor Dobbin, however, and more 
modest in his demeanor when that gentleman was present. He 
was a clever lad, and afraid of the major. George could not help 
admiring his friend's simplicity, his good humor, his various learn- 
ing quietly imparted, his general love of truth and justice. He 
had met no such man as yet in the course of his experience, and 
he had an instinctive liking for a gentleman. He hung fondly by 
his godfather's side ; and it was his delight to walk in the parks 
and hear Dobbin talk. William told George about his father, 
about India and Waterloo, about ever}-thing but himself. When 
George was more than usually pert and conceited, the major made 
jokes at him. which iMrs. Osborne thought ver}- crueL One day, 
taking him to the play, and the boy declining to go into the pit 
because it was vulgar, the major took him to the boxes, left him 
there, and went down himself to the pit. He had not been seated 
there ver}- long, before he felt an arm thrust under his, and a 
dandy little hand in a kid glove squeezing his arm. George had 
seen the absurdity of his ways, and come down from the upper 
region. A tender laugh of benevolence lighted up old Dobbin's 
face and eyes as he looked at the repentant little prodigal. He 
loved the boy as he did everything that belonged to Amelia. How 
charmed she was when she heard of this instance of George's 
goodness ! Her eyes looked more kindly on Dobbin than they 
ever had done. She blushed, he thought, after looking at him so. 

Georgy never tired of his praises of the major to his mother. 
" I like him, mamma, because he knows such lots of things ; and 
he ain't like old Veal, who is always bragging and using such long 
words, don't you know ? The chaps call han ' Longtail' at school. 
I gave him the name ; ain't it capital ? But Dob reads Latin like 
Enghsh and French and that ; and when we go out together he 
tells me stories about my papa, and never about himself ; though I 
heard Colonel Buckler, at grandpapa's, say that he was one of 
the bravest officers in the armv, and had distinguished himself 



670 VANITY FAIR. 

ever so much. Grandpapa was quite surprised, and said, ' I'hat 
feller ! why, I didn't think he could say boo to a goose ! ' — but 2 
know he could, couldn't he, mamma ? " 

Emmy laughed ; she thought it was very likely the major could 
do thus much. 

If there was a sincere liking between George and the major, it 
must be confessed that between the boy and his uncle no great 
love existed. George had got a way of blowing out his cheeks, 
and putting his hands in his waistcoat pockets, and saying, " God 
bless my soul, you don't say so," so exactly like the fashion of old 
Jos, that it was impossible to refrain from laughter. The servants 
would explode at dinner if the lad, asking for something which 
wasn't at table, put on that countenance and used that favorite 
phrase. Even Dobbin would shoot out a sudden peal at the boy's 
mimicry. If George did not mimic his uncle to his face, it was 
only by Dobbin's rebukes and Amelia's terrified entreaties that the 
little scapegrace w^as induced to desist. And the worthy civilian 
being haunted by a dim consciousness that the lad thought him an 
ass, and was inclined to, turn him into ridicule, used to be 
extremely timorous and, of course, doubly pompous and dignified 
in the presence of Master Georgy. When it was announced that 
the young gentleman was expected in Gillespie Street to dine with 
his mother, Mr. Jos commonly found that he had an engagement 
at the club. Perhaps nobody was much grieved at his absence. 
On those days Mr. Sedley would commonly be induced to come 
out from his place of refuge in the upper stories ; and there would 
be a small family party, whereof Major Dobbin pretty generally 
formed one. He was the ami de la maison ; old Sedley's friend, 
Emmy's friend, Georgy's friend, Jos's counsel and adviser. " He 
might almost as well be at Madras for anything we see of him," 
Miss Anne Dobbin* remarked at Camberwell. Ah ! Miss Anne, 
did it not strike you that it was not you whom the major wanted 
to marry .'* 

Joseph Sedley then led a life of dignified otiosity such as became 
a person of his eminence. His very first point, of course, was to 
become a member of the Oriental Club, where he spent his morn- 
ings in company of his brother Indians, where he ained, or whence 
be brought home men to dine. 

Amelia had to receive and entertain these gentlemen and their 
ladies. From these she heard how soon Smirn would be in council ; 
how many lacs Jones had broughr home witn him, how Thomson's 
house, in London, haa retused the bills drawn by Thomson, Kibob- 
jee, and Co., the Bombay nouse, and how it was thought the Cal- 
cutta house must go too ; hov/ very imprudent, to say the least of 



I 



RE TURKS TO THE GENTEEL WORLD. 



67 



it, Mrs. Brown's conduct (wife of Brown of the Ahmednug^r 
Irregulars) had been with young Swankey of the body-guard, sip 
ting up with him on deck until all hours, and losing themselves as 
they were riding out at the Cape ; how Mrs. Hardyman had had 
out her thirteen sisters, daughters of a countn- curate, the Rev. 
Pelix Rabbits, and married eleven of them, seven high up in the 




sennce ; how Hornby was wild because his wife would stay in Europe -, 
and Trotter was appointed collector at Ummerapoora. This and 
similar talk took place, at the grand dinners all round. They had 
the same conversation ; the same silver dishes ; the same saddles of 
mutton, boiled turkevs, and entrees. Politics set in a short time 



672 VAA'ITY FAIR. 

after dessert, when the ladies retired up stairs and talked about 
their complaints and their children. 

Mutato nomine^ it is all the same. Don't the barristers wives talk 
about circuit ? — don't the soldiers' ladies gossip about the regi- 
ment ? — don't the clergymen's ladies discourse about Sunday- 
schools, and who takes whose duty ? — don't the very greatest ladies 
of all talk about that small clique of persons to whom they belong, 
and why shall our Indian friends not have their own conversation t 
— only I admit it is slow for the laymen whose fate it sometimes 
is to sit by and listen. 

Before long Emmy had a visiting-book, and was driving about 
regularly in a carriage, calling upon Lad}^ Bludyer, wnfe of Major- 
General Sir Roger Bludyer, K.C.B., Bengal Army ; Lady Huff^ 
wife of Sir G. Huff, Bombay ditto; Mrs. Pice, the lady of Pice 
the director, etc. We are not long in using ourselves to changes 
in life. That carriage came round to Gillespie Street every day ; that 
buttony boy sprang up and down from the box with Emmy's 
and Jos's visiting cards ; at stated hours Emmy and the carriage 
went for Jos to the club, and took him an airing ; or, putting old 
Sedley into the vehicle, she drove the old man round the Regent's 
Park. The lady's-maid and the chariot, the visiting-book and the 
buttony page, became soon as familiar to Amelia as the humble 
routine of Brompton. She accommodated herself to one as to the 
other. If Fate had ordained that she should be a duchess, she 
would even have done that duty, too. She was voted, in Jos's 
female society, rather a pleasing young person — not much in her, 
but pleasing, and that sort of thing. 

The men, as usual, liked her artless kindness and simple refined 
demeanor. The gallant young Indian dandies at home on 
furlough — immense dandies these — chained and mustached — 
driving in tearing cabs, the pillars of the theaters, living at West 
End hotels — nevertheless admired Mrs. Osborne, liked to bow to 
her carriage in the park, and to be admitted to have the honor of 
paying her a morning visit. Swankey of the body-guard himself, 
that dangerous youth, and the greatest buck of all the Indian army 
now on leave, was one day discovered by Major Dobbin tete-a-tete 
with Amelia, and describing the sport of pig-sticking to her with 
great humor and eloquence ; and he spoke afterward of a d — d 
king's officer that's always hanging about the house — a long, thin, 
queer-looking, oldish fellow — a dry fellow though, that took the 
shine out of a man in the talking line. 

Had the Major possessed a little more personal vanity, he would 
have been jealous of so dangerous a young buck as that fascinating 
Bengal captain. But Dobbin was of too simple and generous a 
nature to have any doubts about Amelia. He was glad that the 



RETURNS TO THE GENTEEL WORLD. 673 

young men should pay her respect ; and that others should admire 
her. Ever since her womanhood almost, had she not been perse- 
cuted and undervalued? It pleased him to see how kindness 
brought out her good qualities, and how her spirits gently rose 
with her prosperity. Any person who appreciated her paid a com- 
pliment to the major's good judgment — that is, if a man may be 
said to have good judgment who is under the influence of love's 
delusion. 

After Jos went to court, which we may be sure he did as a loyal 
subject of his sovereign (showing himself in his full court suit at 
the club, whither Dobbin came to fetch him in a very shabby old 
uniform), he who had always been a stanch loyalist and admirer of 
George IV., became such a tremendous Tory and pillar of the 
state, that he was for having Amelia to go to the drawing-room too. 
He somehow had worked himself up to believe that he was impli- 
cated in the maintenance of the public welfare, and that the 
sovereign would not be happy unless Jos Sedley and his family 
appeared to rally round him at St. James's. 

Emmy laughed. " Shall I wear the family diamonds, Jos ? " 
she said. 

" I wish VQU would let me buy you some," thought the major. 
*' I should like to see any that were too good for you." 
43 



€74 



VANITY FAIR, 



CHAPTER LXI. 



IN WHICH TWO LIGHTS ARE PUT OUT, 



HERE came 
a day when 
the round of 
dec orous 
pie asures 
and solemn 
gayeties in 
which Mr. 
Jos Sedley's 
family in- 
dulged, was 
interrupted 
by an event 
which hap- 
pens in most 
houses. As 
you ascend 
the stair- 
case of your 
house from 
the drawing 
toward the 
bed-room 
floors, you 
may have 
remarked a 

little arch in the wall right before you, which at once gives light to 
the stair which leads from the second stor}- to the third (where the 
nursery and servants' chambers commonly are), and serves for 
another purpose of utilit}^, of which the undertaker's men can give 
you a notion. They rest the coffins upon that arch, or pass them 
through it, so as not to disturb in any unseemly manner the cold 
tenant slumbering within the black arch. 

The second-floor arch in a London house, looking up and down 
the well of the staircase, and commanding the main thoroughfare 
by which the inhabitants are passing : by which cook lurks down 




J 



IN WHICH TWO LIGHTS ARE PUT OUT, 675 

before daylight to scour her pots and pans in the kitchen ; by which 
young master stealthily ascends, having left his boots in the hall, 
and let himself in after dawn from a jolly night at the club ; down 
Mhich miss comes rustling in fresh ribbons and spreading muslins, 
brilliant and beautiful, and prepared for conquest and the ball ; or 
Master Tommy slides, preferring the banisters for a mode of convey- 
ance, and disdaining danger and the stair ; down which thd mother 
is fondly carried smiling in her strong husband's arms, as he steps 
steadily step by step, and followed by the monthly nurse, on the 
day when the medical man has pronounced that the charming patient 
may go down stairs : up which John lurks to bed, yawning, with a sput- 
tering tallow candle, and to gather up before sunrise the boots which 
are awaiting him in the passages : that stair up or down which babies 
are carried, old people arelielped, guests are marshaled to the ball, 
the parson walks to the christening, the doctor to the sick-room, and 
the undertaker's men to the upper floor — what a memento of life, 
death, and vanity it is — that arch and stair — if you choose to con- 
sider it, and sit on the landing, looking up and down the well ! The 
doctor will come up to us too, for the last time there, my friend in mot- 
ley. The nurse will look in at the curtains, and you take no notice — 
and then she will fling open the windows for a little, and let in the 
air. Then they will pull down all the front blinds of the house 
and live in the back rooms — then theywill send for the lawyer and 
other men in black, etc. — Your comedy and mine will have been 
played then, and we shall be removed, oh, how far, from the trumpets, 
and the shouting, and the posture-making. If we are gentlefolks 
they will put hatchments over our late domicile, with gilt cherubim 
and mottoes, stating that there is " Quiet in Heaven." Your son 
will new furnish the house, or perhaps let it, and go into a more 
modern quarter ; your name will be among the " members deceased "' 
in the lists of your clubs next year. However much you mav be 
mourned, your widow will like to have her weeds neatly made— the 
cook will send or come up to ask about dinner — the survivor will 
soon bear to look at your picture over the mantle-piece, which will 
presently be deposed from the place of honor, to make way for the 
portrait of the son who reigns. 

Which of the dead are most tenderly and passionately deplored ? 
Those who love the survivors the least, I believe. The death of a 
child occasions a passion of grief and frantic tears, such as vour 
end, brother reader, will never inspire. The death of an infant, 
which scarce knew you, which a week's absence from you would 
have caused to forget you, will strike you down more than the loss 
of your closest friend, or your first-born son — a man grown like 
yourself, with children of his own. We may be harsh and stern 
with Judah and Simeon — our love and pity gush out for Benjamin, 



5/6 VANITY FAIR, 

the little one. And if you are old, as some reader of this may be 
or shall be — old and rich, or old and poor — you may one day be 
chinking for yourself — " These people are very good round about 
me ; but they won't grieve too much when I am gone. I am very 
rich, and they want my inheritance — or very poor, and they are 
tired of supporting me. 

The period of mourning for Mrs, Sedley's death was only just 
concluded, and Jos scarcely had had time to cast off his black 
and appear in the splendid waiscoats which the loved, when it 
became evident to those about Mr. Sedley, that another event was 
at hand, and that the old man was about to go seek for his wife in 
the dark land whither she had preceded him. " The state of my 
father's health," Jos Sedley solemnly remarked at the club, 
" prevents me from giving any large parties this season ; but if 
you will come in quietly at half-past six, Chutney, my boy, and take 
a homely dinner with one or two of the old set — I shall be always 
glad to see you." So Jos and his acquaintances dined and drank 
their claret among themselves in silence ; while the sands of life 
were running out in the old man's glass up stairs. The velvet-foot- 
ed butler brought them their wine ; and they composed themsleves to 
a rubber after dinner ; at which Major Dobbin would sometimes 
come and take a hand ; and Mrs. Osborne would occasionally 
descend, when her patient above was settled for the night, and had 
commenced one of those lightly troubled slumbers which visit the 
pillow of old age. 

The old man clung to his daughter during this sickness. He 
would take his broths and medicines from scarcely any other hand. 
To tend him became almost the sole business of her life. Her bed 
was placed close by the door which opened into his chamber, and 
she w^as alive at the slightest noise or disturbance from the couch 
of the querulous invalid. Though, to do him justice, he lay awake 
many an hour, silent and without stirring, unwilling to awaken his 
kind and vigilant nurse. 

He loved his daughter with more fondness no^v, perhaps, than 
ever he had done since the days of her childhood. In the discharge 
of gentle offices and kind filial duties, this simple creature shone 
most especially. " She w^alks into the room as silently as a sun- 
beam," Mr. Dobbin thought, as he saw her passing in and out from 
her father's room ; a cheerful sweetness lighting up her face as she 
moved to and fro, graceful and noiseless. When women are brood- 
ing over their children, or busied in a sick-room, who has not seen 
in their faces those sweet angelic beams of love and pity ? 

A secret feud of some years' standing was thus healed, and with 
a tacit reconciliation. In these last hours, and touched by her 
love and goodness, the old man forgot all his grief against her. 



IN WHICH TWO LIGHTS ARE PUT OUT. 



677 



and wrongs which he and his wife had many a long night debat- 
ed ; how she had given up everything for her boy ; how she was care- 
less of her parents in their old age and misfortune, and only thought 
of the child : how absurdly and foolishly, impiously indeed, she 
took on when 
George was re 
moved from her. 
Old Sedley for- 
got these charges 
as he was mak- 
ing up his last ac- 
count, and did 
justice to the gen- 
tle and uncom- 
plaining little 
anartyr. One 
night when she 
stole into his 
room, she found 
liim awake, when 
the broken old 
man made his 
confession. "Oh, 
Emmy, I've been 
thinking we were 
very unkind and 
unjust to you," he 
said, and put out 
his cold and fee- 
ble hand to her. 
She knelt down and prayed by his bedside, as he did too, having 
:still hold of her hand. When our turn comes, friend, may we 
have such company ir* our prayers ! 

Perhaps as he was lying awake then, his life may have passed 
before him — his early hopeful struggles, his manly successes and 
prosperity, his downfall in his declining years, and his present 
helpless condition — no chance of revenge against fortune, which 
had had the better of him — neither name nor money to bequeath 
— a spent-out, bootless life of defeat and disappointment, and the 
>end here ! Which, I wonder, brother reader, is the better lot, to 
die prosperous, and famous, or poor and disappointed ? — to have, and 
to be forced to yield, or to sink out of life, having played and lost the 
:game ? That must be a strange feeling, when a day of our life 
•comes and we say, " To-morrow success or failure won't matter 
anuch ; and the sun will rise, and all the myriads of mankind go to 




678 VANITY FAIR. 

their work or their pleasure as usual, but I shall be out of the: 
turmoil." 

So there came one morning and sunrise, when all the world got 
up and set about its various works and pleasures with the exception 
of old Joseph Sedley, who was not to fight with fortune, or to hope 
or scheme any more : but to go and take up a quiet and utterly 
unknown residence in a churchyard at Brompton by the side of his 
old wife. 

Major Dobbin, Jos, and Georgy followed his remains to the 
grave, in a black cloth coach. Jos came on purpose from the Star 
and Garter at Richmond, whither he retreated after the deplorable 
event. He did not care to remain in the house, with the — under 
the circumstances, you understand. But Emmy stayed and did 
her duty as usual. She was bowed down by no especial grief, and. 
rather solemn than sorrowful. She prayed that her own end might 
be as calm and painless, and thought with trust and reverence of 
the words which she had heard from her father during his illness,, 
indicative of his faith, his resignation, and his future hope. 

Yes, I think that will be the better ending of the two after all.. 
Suppose you are particularly rich and well to do, and say on that 
last day, " I am very rich : I am tolerably well known ; I have 
lived all my life in the best society, and thank heaven, come of a: 
most respectable family. I have served my king and country with 
honor. I was in parliament for several years, where, I may say,, 
my speeches were listened to, and pretty well received. I don't 
owe any man a shilling ; on the contrar}-, I lent my old college 
friend. Jack Lazarus, fifty pounds, for which my executors will not. 
press him. I leave my daughters with ten thousand pounds a piece. 
— very good portions for girls ; I bequeath my plate and furniture,, 
my house in Baker Street, with a handsome jointure, to my widow 
for her life ; and my landed property, besides money in the funds,, 
and my cellar of well-selected wine in Baker Street, to my son. I 
leave twenty pound a year to my valet ; and defy any man after I 
have gone to find anything against my character." Or suppose, on 
the other hand, your swan sings quite a different sort of dirge, and 
you say, " I am a poor, blighted, disappointed old fellow, and have 
made an utter failure through life. I was not endowed either with 
brains or with good fortune ; and confess that I have committed a 
hundred mistakes and blunders. I own to having forgotten my 
duty many a time. I can't pay what I owe. On my last bed I lie 
utterly helpless and humble ; and I pray forgiveness for my weak- 
ness, and throw myself with a contrite heart, at the feet of the 
Divine mercy." Which of these two speeches, think you, would be 
the best oration for your own funeral ? Old Sedley made the last ;: 
and in that humble frame of mind, and holding by the hand of his. 



i 



IN WHICH TWO LIGHTS ARE PUT OUT. 679: 

daughter, life and disappointment and vanity sank away from under 
him. 

" You see," said old Osborne to George, " what comes of merit 
and industry, and judicious speculations, and that. Look at me 
and my banker's account. Look at your poor grandfather Sedley, 
and his failure. And yet he was a better man than I was, this day 
twenty years — a better man, I should say, by ten thousand pound." 

Beyond these people and Mr. Clapp's family, who came over 
from Brompton to pay a visit of condolence, not a single soul alive 
ever cared a penny piece about old John Sedley, or remembered 
the existence of such a person. 

When old Osborne first heard from his friend Colonel Buckler 
(as little Georgy has already informed us) how distinguished an 
officer Major Dobbin was, he exhibited a great deal of scornful in- 
credulity, and expressed his surprise how ever such a feller as that 
should possess either brains or reputation. But he heard of the 
major's fame from various members of his society. Sir WiUiam 
Dobbin had a great opinion of his son, and narrated many stories, 
illustrative of the major's learning, valor, and estimation in the 
world's opinion. Finally, his name appeared in the lists of one or 
two great parties of the nobility ; and this circumstance had a pro- 
digious effect upon the old aristocrat of Russell Square. 

The major's position, as guardian to Georgy, whose possession 
had been ceded to his grandfather, rendered some meetings 
between the two gentlemen inevitable ; and it was in one of these 
that old Osborne, a keen man of business, looking into the major's 
accounts with his ward and the boy's mother, got a hint which 
staggered him very much, and at once pained and pleased him, that 
it was out of William Dobbin's own pocket that a part of the fund 
had been supplied upon which the poor widow and the child had 
subsisted. 

When pressed upon the point, Dobbin, who could not tell lies, 
blushed and stammered a good deal, and finally confessed. " The 
marriage," he said (at which his interlocutor's face grew dark), 
" was very much my doing. I thought my poor friend had gone so 
far that retreat from his engagement would have been dishonor to 
him, and death to Mrs. Osborne ; and I could do no less^ when 
she was left without resources, than give what money I could 
spare to maintain her." 

" Major D.," Mr. Osborne said, looking hard at him, and turn- 
ing very red, too — "you did me a great injury ; but give me leave 
to tell you, sir, you are an honest feller. There's my hand, sir, 
though I little thought that my flesh and blood was living on. 



68o VA.VITY FAIR. 

you — "and the pair shook hands, with great confusion on Major 
Dobbin's part, thus found out in his act of charitable hypocrisy. 

He strove to soften the old man, and reconcile him toward his 
son's memory. " He was such a noble fellow," he said, " that all 
of us loved him, and would have done anything for him. I, as a 
young man in those days, was flattered beyond measure by his 
preference for me ; and was more pleased to be seen in his com- 
pany than in that of the commander-in-chief. I never saw his 
equal for pluck and daring, and all the qualities of a soldier ; " and 
Dobbin told the old father as many stories as he could remember 
regarding the gallantry and achievements of his son. " And 
Georg}' is so like him," the major added. 

" He's so like him that he makes me tremble sometimes," the 
grandfather said. 

On one or two evenings the major came to dine with Mr. Os- 
borne (it was during the time of the sickness of Mr. Sedley), and 
as the two sat together in the evening after dinner all their talk 
was about the departed hero. The father boasted about him ac- 
cording to his wont, glorifying himself in recounting his son's feats 
and gallantry, but his mood was at any rate better and more char- 
itable than that in which he had been disposed until now to regard the 
poor fellow ; and the Christian heart of the kind major was pleased 
at these symptoms of returning peace and good-will. On the 
second evening old Osborne called Dobbin William, just as he 
used to dc at the time when Dobbin and George were boys to- 
gether ; and the honest gentleman was pleased by that mark of 
reconciliation. 

On the next day at breakfast when Miss Osborne, with the 
asperity of her age and character, ventured to make some remark 
reflecting slightingly upon the major's appearance or behavior — 
the master of the house interrupted her. " You'd have been glad 
enough to git him for yourself. Miss O. But them grapes are sour. 
Ha ! ha ! Major William is a fine feller." 

" That he is, grandpapa," said Georgy approvingly ; and going 
up close to the old gentleman he took a hold of his large gray 
whiskers, and laughed in his face good-humoredly and kissed him. 
And he told the story at night to his mother ; who fully agreed 
with the boy. " Indeed he is," she said. " Your dear father 
always said so. He is one of the best and most upright of men." 
Dobbin happened to drop in yqtv soon after this conversation, 
which made Amelia blush perhaps ; and the young scapegrace in- 
creased the confusion by telling Dobbin the other part of the stor}'. 
" I say, Dob," he said, " there's such an uncommon nice girl wants 
to marr}^ you. She's plenty of tin ; she wears a front ; and she 



IN WHICH TWO IIGHTS ARE PUT OUT, 68 1 

scolds the servants from morning till night." " Who is it ?" asked 
Dobbin. 

"It's cunt O.," the boy answered. " Grandpapa said so. And 
I say, Dob, how prime it would be to have you for my uncle." 
Old Sedley's quavering voice from the next room at this moment 
weakly called for Amelia, and the laughing ended. 

That old Osborne's mind was changing, was pretty clear. He 
asked George about his uncle sometimes, and laughed at the boy's 
imitation of the way in which Jos said, " God bless my soul," and 
gobbled his soup. Then he said, " It is not respectful, sir, of you 
younkers to be imitating of your relations. Miss O., when you go 
out a driving to-day, leave my card upon Mr. Sedley, do you hear 'i 
There's no quarrel betwigst me and him anyhow." 

The card was returned, and Jos and the major were asked to 
dinner — to a dinner the most splendid and stupid that perhaps 
ever Mr. Osborne gave ; every inch of the family plate was exhib- 
ited, and the best company was asked. Mr. Sedley took down 
Miss O. to dinner, and she was very gracious to him ; whereas she 
hardly spoke to the major, who sat apart from her, and by the side 
of Mr. Osborne, very timid. Jos said, with great solemnity, it was 
the best turtle soup he had ever tasted in his life ; and asked Mr. 
Osborne where he got his Madeira. 

" It is some of Sedley's wine," whispered the butler to his 
master. " I've had it a long time, and paid a good figure for 
it, too," Mr. Osborne said aloud, to his guest, and then whis- 
pered ("o his right-hand neighbor how he had got it " at the old 
chap's sale." 

More than once he asked the major about — about Mrs. George 
Osborne — a theme on which the major could be very eloquent 
when he chose. He told Mr. Osborne of her sufferings — of her 
passionate attachment to her husband, whose memory she wor- 
shiped still — of the tender and dutiful manner in which she had 
supported her parents, and given up her bo}^, when it seemed to her 
her duty to do so. " You don't know what she endured, sir," said 
honest Dobbin, with a tremor in his voice ; " and I hope and trust 
you will be reconciled to her. If she took your son away from you, 
she gave hers to you ; and however much you loved your George, 
depend on it, she loved hers ten times more." 

" By God, you are a good feller, sir," was all Mr. Osborne said. 
It had never struck him that the widow would feel any pain at 
parting from the boy, or that his having a fine fortune could grieve 
her. A reconciliation was announced as speedy and inevitable : 
and Amelia's heart already began to beat at the notion of the 
awful meeting with George's father. 

It was never, however, destined to take place. Old Sedley's 



<682 VAiVITY FAIR. 

lingering illness and death supervened, after which a meeting was 
for some time impossible. That catastrophe and other events may 
have worked upon Mr. Osborne, He was much shaken of late, 
and aged, and his mind was working inwardly. He had sent for his 
lawyers, and probably changed something in his will. The medical 
man who looked in, pronounced him shaky, agitated, and talked of 
a little blood and the sea-side ; but he took neither of these 
remedies. 

One day when he should have come down to breakfast, his ser- 
vant missing him, went into his dressing-room, and found him 
lying at the foot of the dressing-table in a fit. Miss Osborne 
was apprised ; the doctors were sent for, Georgy stopped away 
from school ; the bleeders and cuppers came. Osborne par- 
tially regained cognizance ; but never could speak again, though he 
tried dreadfully once or twice, and in four days he died. The doc- 
tors went down, and the undertaker's men went up the stairs ; and 
all the shutters were shut toward the garden in Russell Square. 
Bullock rushed from the city in a hurry. " How much money had 
he left to that boy ? — not half, surely ? Surely share and share 
alike between the three ? " It was an agitating moment. 

What was it that poor old man tried once or twice in vain to say ? 
I hope it was that he wanted to see Amelia, and be reconciled 
before he left the world to the dear and faithful wife of his son ; it 
was most likely that ; for his will showed that the hatred which he 
had so long cherished had gone out of his heart. 

They found in the pockets of his dressing-gown the letter with 
the great red seal, which George had written him from Waterloo. 
He had looked at the other papers, too, relative to his son, for the 
key of the box in which he kept them was also in his pocket, and 
it was found the seals and envelopes had been broken — very likely 
on the night before the seizure — when the butler had taken him tea 
into his study, and found him reading in the great red family Bible. 

When the will was opened, it was found that half the property 
was left to George, and the remainder between the two sisters, 
Mr. Bullock to continue, for their joint benefit, the affairs of the 
commercial house, or to go out, as he thought fit. An annuity of 
five hundred pounds, chargeable on George's property, was left to 
his mother, " the widow of my beloved son, George Osborne," 
who was to resume the guardianship of the boy. 

" Major William Dobbin, my beloved son's friend," was appointed 
executor ; " and as out of his kindness and bounty, and with his 
own private funds, he maintained my grandson and my son's wid- 
ow, when they were otherwise without means of support " (the 
testator went on to say), " I hereby thank him heartily for his 
'.love and regard for them ; and beseech him to accept such a sura 



IN WHICH TWO IIGHTS ARE PUT OUT 683 

as may be sufficient to purchase his commission as a lieutenant- 
colonel, or to be disposed of in any way he may think fit." 

When Amelia heard that her father-in-law was reconciled to her, 
lier heart melted, and she was grateful for the fortune left to her. 
But when she heard how Georgy was restored to her, and knew 
how and by whom, and how it was William's bounty that supported 
her in poverty, how it was William who gave her her husband and 
her son — Oh then she sank on her knees, and prayed for blessings 
on that constant and kind heart ; she bowed down and humbled 
herself, and kissed the feet, as it were, of that beautiful and gen- 
erous affection. 

And gratitude was all that she had to pay back for such admir- 
able devotion and benefits — only gratitude ! If she thought of any 
other return, the image of George stood up out oi the grave, and 
said, " You are mine, and mine only, now and forever." 

William knew her feelings ; had he not passed his whole life in 
•divining them ? 

When the nature of Mr. Osborne's will became known to the 
world, it was edifying to remark how Mrs. George Osborne rose in the 
estimation of the people forming her circle of acquaintance. The 
servants of Jos's establishment, who used to question her humble 
orders, and say they would " ask master " whether or not they could 
obey, never thought now of that sort of appeal. The cook forgot 
to sneer at her shabby old gowns (which, indeed, were quite eclipsed 
by that lady's finery when she was dressed, to go to church of a 
Sunday evening), the others no longer grumbled at the sound of 
her bell, or delayed to answer that summons. The coachman, who 
grumbled that his 'osses should be brought out, and his carriage 
made into an hospital for that old feller and Mrs. O., drove her 
with the utmost alacrity now, and trembling lest he should be 
superseded by Mr. Osborne's coachman, asked " what them there 
Russell Square coachmen knew about town, and whether they was 
fit to sit on a box before a lady ? " Jos's friends, male and female, 
suddenly became interested about Emmy, and cards of condolence 
multiplied on her hall table. Jos himself, who had looked on her 
as a good-natured harmless pauper to whom it was his duty to give 
victuals and shelter, paid her and the rich little boy, his nephew, 
the greatest respect — was anxious that she should have change and 
amusement after her troubles and trials, '' poor aear girl " — and 
began to appear at the breakfast-table, and most particularly to ask 
how she would like to dispose of the day. 

In her capacity of guardian to Georgy, she, with the consent of 
the major, her fellow-trustee, begged Miss Osborne to live in the 
Russell Square house as long as ever she chose to dwell there , 
but that lady, with thanks, declared that she never could think of 



684 VANITY FAIR. 

remaining alone in that melancholy mansion, and departed in deep 
mourning to Cheltenham, with a couple of her old domestics. 
The rest were liberally paid and dismissed , the faithful old butler, 
whom Mrs. Osborne proposed to retain, resigning and perferring 
to invest his savings in a public-house, where, let us hope, he was 
not unprosperous. Miss Osborne not choosing to live in Russell 
Square, Mrs. Osborne also, after consultation, declined to occupy 
the gloony old mansion there. The house was dismantled ; the 
rich furniture and effects, the awful chandeliers and dreary blank 
mirrors packed away and hidden, the rich rose-wood drawing-room 
suite was muffled in straw, the carpets were rolled up and corded, 
the small select library of well-bound books was stowed into two 
wine-chests, and the whole paraphernalia rolled away in several 
enormous vans to the Pantechnicon, where they were to lie until 
George's majority. And the great heavy, dark plate-chests went 
off to Messrs. Stumpy and Rowdy, to lie in the cellars of those 
eminent bankers until the same period should arrive. 

One day Emmy with George in her hand and clad in deep sables 
went to visit the deserted mansion which she had not entered since 
she was a girl. The place in front was littered with straw where 
the vans had been laden and rolled off. They went into the great 
blank rooms, the walls of which bore the marks where the pictures 
and mirrors had hung. Then they went up the great blank stone 
staircases into the upper rooms, into that where grandpapa died, as 
George said in a whisper, and then higher still into George's own 
room. The boy was still clinging by her side, but she thought of 
another besides him. She knew that it had been his father's room 
as well as his own. 

She went up to one of the open windows (one of those at which 
she used to gaze with a sick heart when the child was first taken 
from her), and thence as she looked out she could see, over the 
trees of Russell Square, the old house in which she herself was 
born, and where she had passed so many happy days of sacred 
youth. They all came back to her, the pleasant holidays, the kind 
faces, the careless, joyful past times ; and the long pains and trials 
that had since cast her down. She thought of these and of the 
man who had been her constant protector, her good genius, her 
sole benefactor, her tender and generous friend. 

" Look here, mother," said Georgy, " here's a G. O. scratched on 
the glass with a diamond ; I never saw it before, / never did it." 

" It was your father's room long before you were born, George," 
she said, and she blushed as she kissed the boy. 

She was very silent as they drove back to Richmond, where they 
had taken a temporary house ; where the smiling lawyers used to 
come bustling over to see her (and we may be sure noted the visit 



IN WHICH TWO LIGHTS ARE PUT OUT 6S5 

in the bill) ; and where of course there was a room for Major Dob- 
bin too, who rode over frequently, having much business to trans- 
act on behalf of his little ward. 

Georg}' at this time was removed from Mr. Veal's on an unlimited 
holiday, and that gentjeman was engaged to prepare an inscription 
for a fine marble slab, to be placed up in the Foundling under the 
monument of Captain George Osborne. 

The female Bullock, aunt of Georgy, although despoiled by that 
little monster of one-half of the sum which she expected from her 
father, nevertheless showed her charitableness of spirit by being 
reconciled to the mother of the boy. Roehampton is not far from 
Richmond, and one day the chariot, with the golden bullock emblaz- 
oned on the panels and the flaccid children within, drove to 
Amelia's house at Richmond ; and the Bullock family made an irrup- 
tion into the garden, where Amelia was reading a book, Jos was.in 
an arbor placidly dipping strawberries into wine, and the major in 
one of his Indian jackets was giving a back to Georg}^, w^ho chose 
to jump over him. He went over his head and bounded into the 
little advance of Bullocks, with immense black bows in their hats, 
and huge black sashes, accompanying their mourning mamma. 

" He is just of the age for Rosa," the fond parent thought, and 
glanced toward that dear child, an unwholesome little miss of seven 
years of age. 

" Rosa, go and kiss your dear cousin," Mrs. Frederick said. 
" Don't you know me, George ? — I am your aunt." 

" / know you well enough," George said ; " but I don't like 
kissing, please ;" and he retreated from the obedient caresses of 
his cousin. 

" Take me to your dear mamma, you droll child," Mrs. Frederick 
said ; and those ladies accordingly met, after an absence of more 
than fifteen years. During Emmy's cares and poverty the other 
had never once thought about coming to see her ; but now that she 
was decently prosperous in the world, her sister-in-law came to her 
as a matter of course. 

So did numbers more. Our old friend, Miss Swartz, and her 
husband came thundering over from Hampton Court, with flaming 
yellow liveries, and was as impetuously fond of Amelia as ever. 
Miss Swartz would have liked her always if she could have seen 
her. One must do her that justice. But, que voulez vous ? — in this 
vast town one has not the time to go and seek one's friends ; if they 
drop out of the rank they disappear, and we march on without them. 
Who is ever missed in Vanity Fair ? 

But so, in a word, and before the period of grief for Mr. Osborne's 
death had subsided, Emmy found herself in the center of a very 



686 VANITY FAIR. 

genteel circle indeed ; the members of which could not conceive 
that anybody belonging to it was not very lucky. There was scarce 
one of the ladies that hadn't a relation a peer, though the husband 
might be a dr}^salter in the city. Some of the ladies were very blue 
and well informed ; reading Mrs. Somerville, and frequenting the 
Royal Institution ; others were severe and evangelical, and held by 
Exeter Hall. Emmy, it must be owned, found herself entirely at a loss 
in the midst of their clavers, and suffered wofully on the one or two 
occasions on which she was compelled to accept Mrs. Frederick 
Bullock's hospitalities. That lady persisted in patronizing her, and 
determined most graciously to form her. She found Amelia's 
milliners for her, and regulated her household and her manners. 
She drove over constantly from Roehampton, and entertained her 
friend with faint fashionable fiddlef addle and feeble court slipslop. 
Jos liked to hear it, but the major used to go off growling at the 
appearance of this woman, with her twopenny gentility. He went 
to sleep under Frederick Bullock's bald head, after dinner, at one 
of the banker's best parties (Fred was still anxious that the balance 
of the Osborne property should be transferred from Stumpy and 
Rowdy's to them), and while Amelia, who did not know Latin, or 
who wrote the last crack article in the Edinburgh, and did not in 
the least deplore, or otherwise, Mr. Peel's late extraordinary 
tergiversation in the fatal Catholic relief bill, sat dumb among the 
ladies in the grand drawing-room looking out upon velvet lawns, 
trim gravel walks, and glistening hot-houses. 

" She seems good-natured but insipid," said Mrs. Rowdy. " That 
major seems to be particularly ^j^r/j-." 

" She wants ton sadly," said Mrs. Hollyock. "My deai 
creature, you never will be able to form her." 

" She is dreadfully ignorant or indifferent," said Mrs. dowry, 
with a voice as if from the grave, and a sad shake of the head and 
turban. "I asked her if she thought it was in 1836, according to 
Mr. Jowls, or in 1839, according to Mr. Wapshot, that the pope 
was to fall, and she said, ' Poor Pope ! I hope not. What has he 
done ? ' " 

" She is my brother's widow, my dear friends," Mrs. Frederick 
replied, " and as such I think we're all bound to give her every 
attention and instruction on entering into the world. You may 
fancy there can be no me?re7iary motives in those whose disappoiiit- 
ments are well known." 

" That poor, dear Mrs. Bullock," said Rowdy to Hollyock, as 
they drove away together — " she is always scheming and managing. 
She wants Mrs. Osborne's account to be taken from our house to 
hers — and the way in which she coaxes that boy, and makes him sit 
by that blear-eyed little Rosa, is perfectly ridiculous." 



IN WHICH TWO LIGHTS ARE PUT OUT. 687 

*' I wish dowry was choked with her Man of Sin and her Battle 
of Armageddon," cried the other ; and the carriage rolled away 
over Putney Bridge. 

But this sort of society was too cruelly genteel for Emmy ; and 
aH jumped for joy when a foreign tour was proposed. 



6SS 



VANITY FAm, 



CHAPTER LXII. 

AM RHEIN. 



HE above every-day 
events had occurred, 
and a few weeks had 
passed, when on one 
fine morning parlia- 
ment being over, the 
summer advanced, 
and all the good 
company in London 
about to quit that 
city for their annual 
tour in search of 
pleasure o r health, 
the Batavier steam- 
boat left the Tower 
stairs laden with a 
goodly company of 
English fugitives. 
The quarter-d e c k 
awnings were up, and the benches and gangways crowded with 
scores of rosy children, bustling nurse-maids, ladies in the prettiest 
pink bonnets and summer dresses, gentlemen in traveling caps and 
linen jackets, whose mustachios had just begun to sprout for the 
ensuing tour ; and stout trim old veterans with starched neckcloths 
and neat-brushed hats, such as have invaded Europe any time since 
the conclusion of the war, and carry the national Goddem into 
every city of the Continent. The congregation of hat-boxes, and 
Bramah desks, and dressing-cases was prodigious. There were 
jaunty young Cambridge men traveling with their tutor, and going 
for a reading excursion to Nonnenwerth or Konigswinter ; there 
were Irish gentlemen with the most dashing whiskers and jewelry, 
talking about horses incessantly, and prodigiously polite to the 
young ladies on board, whom, on the contrary, the Cambridge lads 
and their pale-faced tutor avoided with maiden coyness ; there 
were old Pall Mall loungers, bound for Ems and Weisbaden, and a 
course of waters to clear off the dinners of the season, and a little 




AM RHEIN. 689 

roulette and trente-et-quarante to keep the excitement going ; here 
was old Methuselah, who had married his young wife, with Captain 
Papillon of the guards holding her parasol and guide-books ; there 
was young May who was carrying off his bride on a pleasure tour 
(Mrs. Winter that was, and who had been at school with May's 
grandmother); there was Sir John and my lady with a dozen 
children, and corresponding nurse-maids ; and the great grandee 
Bareacres family, that sat by themselves near the wheel, stared at 
everybody, and spoke to no one. Their carriages, emblazoned 
with coronets, and heaped with shining imperials, were on the fore 
deck, locked in with a dozen more such vehicles. It was difficult 
to pass in and out among them, and the poor inmates of the fore 
cabin had scarcely any space for locomotion. These consisted of 
a few magnificently attired gentlemen from Houndsditch, who 
brought their own provisions, and could have bought half the gay 
people in the grand saloon ; a few honest fellows with mustaches 
and portfolios, who set to sketching before they had been half an 
hour on board ; one or two French femmes de chambre, who began 
to be dreadfully ill by the time the boat had passed Greenwich ; a 
groom or two who lounged in the neighborhood of the horse-boxes 
under their charge, or leaned over the side of the paddle-wheels, 
and talked about who was good for the Leger, and what they stood 
to win or lose for the Goodwood cup. 

All the couriers, when they had done plunging about the ship, 
and had settled their various masters in the cabins or on the deck, 
congregated together and began to chatter and smoke, the Hebrew 
gentlemen joining them and looking at the carriages. There was 
Sir John's great carriage, that would hold thirteen people ; my 
Lord Methuselah's carriage ; my Lord Bareacres' chariot, britzska, 
and fourgon, that anybody might pay for who liked. It was a 
wonder how my lord got the ready money to pay for the expenses 
of the journey. The Hebrew gentlemen knew how he got it. They 
knew what money his lordship had in his pocket at that instant, 
and what interest he paid for it, and who gave it him. Finally, 
there was a very neat, handsome traveling carriage, about which 
the gentlemen speculated. 

" A qui cette voitiire la ? " said one gentleman courier with a large 
morocco money-bag and ear-rings, to another with ear-rings and a 
large morocco money-bag. 

" Oest a Kirsch je dense — -Je Vai vu toute a /' heure — qui brenoit 
des sangviches dans la voiture,^^ said the courier, in a fine German- 
French. 

Kirsch emerging presently from the neighborhood of the hold, 
where he had been bellowing instructions intermingled with poly- 
glot oaths to the ship's men engaged in secreting the passengers' 

44 



690 



VAiVITY FAIR. 



luggage, came to give an account of himself to his brother inter- 
preters. He informed them that the carriage belonged to a nabob 
from Calcutta and Jamaica enormously rich, and with whom he 
was engaged to travel ; and at this moment a young gentleman 




who had been warned off the bridge between the paddle-boxes, 
and who had dropped thence on to the roof of Lord Methuselah's 
carriage, from which he made his way over other carriages and 
imperials until he had clambered on to his own, descended thence 



AM RHEIN. 691 

and through the window into the body of the carriage, to the 
applause of the couriers looking on. 

" Nous allons avoir une belle traversee, ]Monsieur George," said 
the courier, with a grin, as he lifted his gold-laced cap. 

" D your French," said the young gentleman, " where's the 

biscuits, ay ? " Whereupon Kirsch answered him in the English 
language, or in such an imitation of it as he could command — for 
though he was familiar with all languages, ]\lr. Kirsch was not 
acquainted with a single one, and spoke all with indifferent volu- 
bility and incorrectness. 

The imperious young gentleman who gobbled the biscuits (and 
indeed it was time to refresh himself, for he had breakfasted at 
Richmond full three hours before) was cur young friend George 
Osborne. Uncle Jos and his mamma were on the quarter-deck 
with a gentleman of whom they used to see a good deal, and the 
four were about to make a summer tour. 

Jos was seated at that moment on deck under the awning, and 
pretty nearly opposite to the Earl of Bareacres and his famih', 
whose proceedings absorbed the Bengalee almost entirely. Both 
the noble couple looked rather younger than in the eventful year 
'15 when Jos remembered to have seen them at Brussels (indeed 
he always gave out in India that he was intimately acquainted with 
them). Lady Bareacres' hair, which was then dark, was now a 
beautiful golden auburn, whereas Lord Bareacres' whiskers, for- 
merly red, were at present of a rich black with purple and green 
reflections in the light. But changed as they were, the movements 
of the noble pair occupied Jos's mind entirely. The presence of a 
lord fascinated him, and he could look at nothing else. 

" Those people seem to interest 3'ou a good deal," said Dobbin, 
laughing and watching him. Amelia too laughed. She was in a 
straw bonnet with black ribbons, and otherwise dressed in mourn- 
ing : but the little bustle and holiday of the journey pleased and 
excited her, and she looked particularly happy. 

" What a heavenly day ! " Emmy said, and added, with great 
originality, " I hope we shall have a calm passage." 

Jos waved his hand, scornfully glancing at the same time under 
his eyelids at the great folks opposite. " If you had made the 
voyages we have," he said, " you wouldn't much care about the 
weather." But nevertheless, traveler as he was, he passed the 
night direfully sick in his carriage, v.here his courier tended him 
with brandy and Avater and every luxury. 

In due time this happy party landed at the quays of Rotterdam, 
whence they were transported by another steamer to the city of 
Cologne. Here the carriage and the family took to the shore, and 
Jos was not a little gratified to see his arrival announced in the 



692 VANITY FAIR. 

Cologne newspapers as " Herr Graf Lord von Sedley nebst Beglei- 
tung aus London." He had his court dress with him ; he had 
insisted that Dobbin should bring his regimental paraphernalia ; 
he announced it was his intention to be presented at some foreign 
courts, and pay his respects to the sovereigns of the countries 
which he honored with a visit. 

Wherever the party stopped, and an opportunity was offered, 
Mr. Jos left his own card and the major's upon " our minister." 
It was with great difficulty that he could be restrained from putting 
on his cocked hat and tights to wait upon the English consul at 
the free city of Judenstadt, when that hospitable functionary asked 
our travelers to dinner. He kept a journal of his voyage, and 
noted elaborately the defects or excellences of the various inns at 
which he put up, and of the wines and dishes of which he partook. 

As for Emmy, she was very happy and pleased. Dobbin used 
to carry about for her her stool and sketch-book, and admired the 
drawings of the good-natured little artist, as they had never been 
admired before. She sat upon steamers' decks and drew crags 
and castles, or she mounted upon donkeys and ascended to ancient 
robber-tow^ers, attended by her two aides-de-camp, Georg}^ and 
Dobbin. She laughed, and the major did too, at his droll figure 
on donkey-back, with his long legs touching the ground. He was 
the interpreter for the party, having a good military knowledge of 
the German language ; and he and the delighted George -fought the 
campaigns of the Rhine and the Palatinate. In the course of a 
few weeks, and by assiduously conversing with Herr Kirsch on the 
box of the carriage, Georgy made prodigious advance in the 
knowledge of High Dutch, and could talk to hotel waiters and 
postilions in a way that charmed his mother and amused his 
guardian. 

Mr. Jos did not much engage in the afternoon excursions of his 
fellow-travelers. He slept a good deal after dinner, or basked in 
the arbors of the pleasant inn gardens. Pleasant Rhine gardens ! 
Fair scenes of peace and sunshine — noble purple mountains, whose 
crests are reflected in the magnificent stream — who has ever seen 
you, that has not a grateful memory of those scenes of friendly 
repose and beauty ? To lay down the pen, and even to think of 
that beautiful Rhineland makes one happy. At this time of sum- 
mer evening, the cows are trooping down from the hills, lowing 
and with their bells tinkling, to the old town, with its old moats, 
and gates, and spires, and chestnut trees, with long blue shadows 
stretching over the grass ; the sky and the river below flame in 
crimson and gold ; and the moon is already out, looking pale 
toward the sunset. The sun sinks behind the great castle-crested 
mountains, the night falls suddenly, the river grows darker and 



694 VANITY FAIR. 

darker, lights quiver In it from the windows in the old ramparts^ 
and twinkle peacefully in the villages under the hills on the oppo- 
site shore. 

So Jos used to go to sleep a good deal with his bandanna over 
his face and be very comfortable, and read all the English news, 
and every word of Galignani's admirable newspaper (may the 
blessings of all Englishmen who have ever been abroad rest on the 
founders and proprietors of that piratical print) ! and whether he 
woke or slept his friends did not very much miss him. Yes, they 
were very happy. They went to the opera often of evenings — to 
those snug, unassuming, dear old operas in the German towns^ 
where the noblesse sits and cries, and knits stockings on the one 
side, over against the bourgeoisie on the other ; and his transpa- 
rency the duke and his transparent family, all very fat and good- 
natured, come and occupy the great box in the middle ; and the 
pit is full of the most elegant slim-waisted officers wdth straw-col- 
ored mustachios, and twopence a day on full pay. Here it was 
that Emmy found her delight, and was introduced for the first time 
to the w^onders of Mozart and Cimarosa. The major's musical 
taste has been before alluded to, and his performances on the flute 
commended. But perhaps the chief pleasure he had in these 
operas was in watching Emmy's rapture while listening to them. 
A new world of love and beauty broke upon her when she was 
introduced to those divine compositions ; this lady had the keenest 
and finest sensibility, and how could she be indifferent when she 
heard Mozart ? The tender parts of " Don Juan " awakened in 
her raptures so exquisite that she would ask herself w^hen she went 
to say her prayers of a night, whether it was not wicked to feel so 
much delight as that with which " Vedrai Carino " and " Batti 
Batti " filled her gentle little bosom ? But the major, whom she 
consulted upon this head, as her theological adviser (and who him- 
self had a pious and reverent soul), said that for his part, every 
beauty of art or nature made him thankful as well as hapjDy ; and 
that the pleasure to be had in listening to fine music, as in looking 
at the stars in the sky, or at a beautiful landscape or picture, was 
a benefit for which we might thank heaven as sincerely as for any 
other worldly blessing. And in reply to some faint objections of 
Mrs. Amelia's (taken from certain theological works like the 
" Washerwoman of Finchley Common " and others of that school, 
with which Mrs. Osborne had been furnished during her life at 
Brompton) he told her an eastern fable of the owl who thought 
that the sunshine was unbearable for the eyes, and that the night- 
ingale was a most overrated bird. " It is one's nature to sing 
and the other's to hoot," he said, laughing, " and with such a 



AM RHEIN. 695 

sweet voice as you have yourself, you must belong to the Bulbul 
faction. 

I like to dwell upon this period of her life, and to think that she 
was cheerful and happy. You see she has not had too much of 
that sort of existence as yet, and has not fallen in the way of 
means to educate her tastes or her intelligence. She has been 
domineered over hitherto by vulgar intellects. It is the lot of 
many a woman. And as every one of the dear sex is a rival of the 
rest of her kind, timidity passes for folly in their charitable judg- 
ments ; and gentleness for dullness ; and silence — which is but 
timid denial of the unwelcome assertion of ruling folks, and tacit 
protestantism — above all, finds no mercy at the hands of the 
female inquisition. Thus, my dear and civilized reader, if you and 
I were to find ourselves this evening in the society of greengrocers, 
let us say, it is probable that our conversation would not be 
brilliant ; if, on the other hand, a greengrocer should find himself 
at your refined and polite tea-table, where everybody was saying 
witty things, and everybody of fashion and repute tearing her 
friends to pieces in the most delightful manner, it is possible that 
the stranger would not be very talkative, and by no means interest- 
ing or interested. 

And it must be remembered that this poor lady had never met a 
gentleman in her life until this present moment. Perhaps these are 
rarer personages that some of us think for. Which of us can point out 
many such in his circle — men whose aims are generous, whose 
truth is constant, and not only constant in its kind but elevated 
in its degree ; whose Avant of meanness makes them simple ; who 
can look the world honestly in the face with an equal manly 
sympathy for the great and the small t We all know a hundred 
whose coats are very well made, and a score who have excellent 
manners, and one or two happy beings who are what they call, in 
the inner circles, and have shot into the very center and bull's 
eye of the fashion ; but of gentlemen, how many ? Let us take a 
little scrap of paper and each make out his list. 

My friend, the major, I write, without any doubt in mine. He had 
very long legs, a yellow face, and a slight lisp, which at first was rather 
ridiculous. But his thoughts were just, his brains were fairly good^ 
his life was honest and pure, and his heart warm and humble. 
He certainly had very large hands and feet, which the two George 
Osbornes used to caricature and laugh at; and their jeers and 
laughter perhaps led poor little Emmy astray as to his worth. 
But have we not all been misled about our heroes, and changed 
our opinions a hundred times ? Emmy, in this happy time, found 
that hers underwent a very great change in the respect of the 
merits of the major. 



696 VANITY FAIR. 

Perhaps it was the happiest time of both their lives indeed, if 
they did but know it — and who does? Which of us can point out 
and say that was the cuhnination — that was the summit of human 
joy ! But at all events this couple vv^ere very decently contented, 
and enjoyed as pleasant a summer tour as any pair that left 
England that year. Georgy was always present at the play, but it 
was the major who put Emmy's shawl on after the entertainment ; 
and in the walks and excursions the young lad would be on 
ahead, and up a tower stair or a tree, while the soberer couple 
were below, tne major smoking his cigar wdth great placidity and 
constancy, while Emmy sketched the sight or the ruin. It was on 
this very tour that I, the present writer of a history of which ever)- 
word is true, had the pleasure to see them first, and to make their 
acquaintance. 

It was at the little comfortable ducal town of Pumpernickel 
(that very place where Sir Pitt Crawley had been so distinguished 
as an attache ; but that was in early days, and before the news of 
the battle of Austerlitz sent all the English diplomatists in Ger- 
many to the right about) that I first saw Colonel Dobbin and his 
party. They had arrived with the carriage and courier at the 
Erbprinz Hotel, the best of the town, and the whole party dined 
at the table d'hote. Everybody remarked the majesty of Jos, and 
the knowing way in which he sipped, or rather sucked, the Johan- 
nisberger, which he ordered for dinner. The little boy, too, we 
observed, had a famous appetite, and consumed schinken, and 
braten, and kartoffeln, and cranberr}^ jam, and salad, and pudding, 
and roast fowls, and sweetmeats, with a gallantry that did honor 
to his nation. After about fifteen dishes, he concluded the repast 
with dessert, some of which he even carried out of doors ; for some 
young gentlemen at table, amused with his coolness, and gallant 
free and easy manner, induced him to pocket a handful of maca- 
roons, which he discussed on his way to the theater, whither every- 
body went in the cheery social little German place. I'he lady 
in black, the boy's mamma, laughed and blushed, and looked 
exceedingly pleased and shy as the dinner went on, and at the 
various feats and instances of espiegkrie on the part of her son. 
The colonel — for so he became very soon afterward — I remember 
joked the boy with a great deal of grave fun, pointing out dishes 
which he hadn't tried, and entreating him not to balk his appetite, 
but to have a second supply of this or that. 

It was what they call a gast-rolle night at the Royal Grand Ducal 
Pumpernickelisch Hof— or court theater ; and Madame Schroeder 
Devrient, then in the bloom of her beauty and genius, performed 
the part of the heroine in the wonderful opera of " Fidelio." From 



JM RHEIN. 697 

our places in the stalls we could see our four friends of the table 
(Thbte^ in the loge which Schwendler of the Erbprinz kept for his 
best guests ; and I could not help remarking the effect which the 
magnificent actress and music produced upon Mrs. Osborne, for 
so we heard the stout gentleman in the mustachios call her. Dur- 
ing the astonishing chorus of the prisoners, over which the delight- 
ful voice of the actress rose and soared in the most ravishing har- 
mony, the English lady's face wore such an expression of wonder 
and delight that it struck even little Fipps, the blase attache, who 
drawled out, as he fixed his glass upon her, " Gayd, it really does 
one good to see a woman caypable of that stayt of excaytement." 
And in the prison scene, where Fidelio, rushing to her husband, 
cries, " Nichts nichts, mein Florestan," she fairly lost herself and 
covered her face with her handkerchief. Every woman in the 
house was sniveling at the time ; but I suppose it was because it 
was predestined that I was to write this particular lady's memoirs 
that I remarked her. 

The next day they gave another piece of Beethoven, Die Schlacht 
bei Vittoria. Malbrook is introduced at the beginning of the per- 
formance, as indicative of the brisk advance of the French army. 
Then come drums, trumpets, thunders of artillery, and groans of 
the dying, and at last in a grand triumphal swell, " God Save the 
King " is performed. 

There may have been a score of Englishmen in the house, but 
at the burst of that beloved and well-known music, every one of 
them, we young fellows in the stalls. Sir John and Lady Bull- 
minister (who had taken a house at Pumperknickel for the educa- 
tion of their nine children), the fat gentleman with the mustachios, 
the long major in white duck trousers, and the lady with the little 
boy upon whom he was so sweet ; even Kirsch, the courier in the 
gallery, stood bolt upright in their places, and proclaimed them- 
selves to be members of the dear old British nation. As for 
Tapeworm, the charge d'affaires, he rose up in his box and bowed 
and simpered, as if he would represent the whole empire. Tape- 
worm was nephew and heir of old Marshal Tiptoff, who has been 
introduced in this story as General Tiptoff, just before Waterloo, 
who was colonel of the — th regiment in which Major Dobbin 
served, and who died in this year full of honors, and of an aspic 
of plovers' eggs ; when the regiment was graciously given by his 
majesty to Colonel Sir Michael O'Dowd, K.C.B., who had com- 
manded it in many glorious fields. 

Tapeworm must have met with Colonel Dobbin at the house of 
the colonel's colonel, the marshal, for he recognized him on this night 
at the theater; and with the utmost condescension his majesty's 



698 



VANITY FAIR. 



minister came over from his own box and publicly shook hands 
with his new-found friend. 

" Look at that infernal sly-boots of a Tapeworm," Fipps whis- 
pered, examining his chief from the stalls. '"Wherever there's a 
pretty woman, he always twists himself in.'' And I wonder what 
were diplomatists made for but for that 1 




" Have I the honor of addressing myself to Mrs. Dobbin ? ' 
asked the secretar}^, with a most insinuatirg grin. 

Georgy burst out laughing anr. said. ''- By Jove, that is a good 
'un." Emmy and the major blushed ; we saw them from the stalls 

" This lady is Mrs. George Osborne," said the major, " and this 
is her brother, Mr. Sedley, a distinguished officer of the Bengal 
civil service ; permit me to introduce him to your lordship." 



AM RHEIN. 699 

My lord nearly sent Jos off his legs, with the most fascinating 
smile. " Are you going to stop in Pumpernickel ? " he said. " It 
is a dull place, but we want some nice people, and we would try 
and make it so agreeable to you. Mr. — Ahem — Mrs. — Oho. I shall 
do myself the honor of calling upon you to-morrow at your inn." 
And he went away with a Parthian grin and glance, which he 
thought must finish Mrs. Osborne completely. 

The performance over, the young fellows lounged about the lob- 
bies, and we saw the societ}^ take its departure. The duchess 
dowager went off in her jingling old coach, attended by two faith- 
ful and withered old maids of honor, and a little snuffy spindle- 
shanked gentleman in waiting, in a brown jasey and a green coat 
covered with orders — of which the star and the grand yellow cor- 
don of the order of St. Michael of Pumpernickel was most con- 
spicuous. The drums rolled, the guards saluted, and the old 
carriage rolled away. 

Then came his transparency the duke and transparent family, 
with his great officers of state and household. He bowed serenely 
to everybody. And amid the saluting of the guards, and the flar- 
ing of the torches of the running footmen, clad in scarlet, the trans- 
parent carriages drove away to the old ducal schloss, with its 
towers and pinnacles standing on the Schlossberg. Everybody in 
Pumpernickel knew everybody. No sooner was a foreigner seen 
there, than the minister of foreign affairs or some other great or 
small officer of state, went round to the Erbprinz, and found out 
the name of the new arrivals. 

We watched them too out of the theater. Tapeworm had just 
walked off enveloped in his cloak, with which his gigantic chasseur 
was always in attendance, and looking as much as possible like 
Don Juan. The prime minister's lady had just squeezed herself 
into her sedan, and her daughter, the charming Ida, had put on 
her calash and clogs ; when the English party came out, the boy 
yawning drearily, the major taking great pains in keeping the 
shawl over Mrs. Osborne's head, and Mr. Sedley looking grand, 
with a crush opera-hat on one side of his head, and his hand in the 
stomach of a voluminous white waistcoat. We took off our hats 
to our acquaintances of the table a'hbte^ and the lady, in return, 
presented us with a little smile and a courtesy, for which ever}^body 
might be thankful. 

The carriage from the inn, under the superintendence of the 
bustling Mr. Kirsch, was in waiting to convey the party ; but the 
fat man said he would walk and smioke his cigar on his way home- 
ward ; so the other three, with nods and smiles to us, went without 
Mr. Sedley, Kirsch, with the cigar-case, following in his master's 
wake. 



700 VAJVITV FAIR. 

We all walked together, and talked to the stout gentleman about 
the agremens of the place. It was very agreeable for the English, 
There were shooting-parties and battues ; there was a plenty of 
balls and entertainments at the hospitable court ; the society was 
generally good, the theater excellent, and the living cheap. 

" And our minister seems a most delightful and affable person,'^ 
our new friend said. " With such a representative, and — and a 
good medical man, I can fancy the place to be most eligible. 
Good-night, gentlemen." And Jos creaked up the stairs to bedward, 
followed by Kirsch with a flambeau. We rather hoped that the 
nice-looking woman would be induced to stay some time in the 
town. 



1 



WE MEET AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE. 



701 



CHAPTER LXIII. 



IN WHICH WE MEET AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE. 

UCH polite behavior as that of 
Lord Tapeworm did not fail 
to have the most favorable ef- 
fect upon Mr. Sedley's mind, 
and the very next morning, at 
breakfast, he pronounced his 
opinion that Pumpernickel was 
the pleasantest little place of 
any which he had visited on 
their tour. Jos's motives and 
artifices were not very difficult 
of comprehension ; and Dobbin 
laughed in his sleeve, like a 
hypocrite as he was, when he 
found by the knowing air of 
the civilian and the off-hand 
manner in which the latter 
talked about Tapeworm Castle, 
and the other members of the 
family, that Jos had been up 
already in the morning, con- 
sulting his traveling peerage. 
Yes, he had seen the Right 
Honorable the Earl of Bagwig, 
his lordship's father ; he was sure he had, he had met him at — at 
the levee — didn't Dob remember ? and when the diplomatist called 
on the party, faithful to his promise, Jos received him with such a 
salute and honors as were seldom accorded to the little envoy. 
He winked at Kirsch on his excellency's arrival, and that emis- 
sary, instructed beforehand, went out and superintended an enter- 
tainment of cold meats, jellies, and other delicacies, brought in 
upon trays, and of which Mr. Jos absolutely insisted that his noble 
guest should partake. 

Tapeworm, so long as he could have an opportunity of admiring 
the bright eyes of Mrs. Osborne (whose freshness of complexion 
bore daylight remarkably well) was not ill pleased to accept any 




702 VANITY FAIR 

invitation to stay in Mr. Sedley's lodgings ; he put one or two dex- 
terous questions to him about India and the dancing-girls there ; 
asked Ameha about that beautiful boy who had been with her, and 
complimented the astonished little woman upon the prodigious 
sensation which she had made in the house ; and tried to fascinate 
Dobbin by talking of the late war, and the exploits of the Pumper- 
nickel contingent under the command of the hereditary prince, now 
Duke of Pumpernickel. 

Lord Tapeworm inherited no little portion of the family gallantry, 
and it was his happy belief that almost every woman upon whom 
he himself cast friendly eyes was in love with him. He left Emmy 
under the persuasion that she was slain by his wit and attractions, 
and went home to his lodgings to write a pretty little note to her. 
She was not fascinated ; only puzzled by his grinning, his simper- 
ing, his scented cambric handkerchief, and his high-heeled lack- 
ered boots. She did not understand one half the compliments 
which he paid ; she had never, in her small experience of man- 
kind, met a professional ladies' man as yet, and looked upon my 
lord as something curious rather than pleasant ; and if she did not 
admire, certainly wondered at him. Jos, on the contrary, was 
delighted. " How very affable his lordship is," he said, " how 
very kind of his lordship to say he would send his medical man ! 
Kirsch, you will carry our cards to the Count de Schliisselback 
directly; the major and I wdll have the greatest pleasure in paying 
our respects at court as soon as possible. Put out my uniform, 
Kirsch — both our uniforms. It is a mark of politeness which every 
English gentleman ought to show to the countries which he visits, 
to pay his respects to the sovereigns of those countries as to the 
representatives of his own." 

When Tapeworm's doctor came, Doctor Von Glauber, body 
physician to H.S.H. the Duke, he speedily convinced Jos that the 
Pumpernickel mineral springs and the doctor's particular treat- 
ment would infallibly restore the Bengalee to youth and slimness. 
" Dere came here last year," he said, " Shenerai Bulkeley, an Eng- 
lish sheneral, tvice so pic as you, sir. I sent him back qvite tin 
after tree months, and he danced vid Baroness Glauber at the end 
of two." 

Jos's mind was made up ; the springs, the doctor, the court, and 
the charge d'affaires convinced him, and he proposed to spend the 
autumn in these delightful quarters. — And punctual to his word, on 
the next day the charge d'affaires presented Jos and the major to 
Victor Aurelius XVII., being conducted to their audience with 
that sovereign by the Count de Schliisselback, marshal of the 
court. 

They were straightway invited to dinner at court, and their 






704. VAiVITY FAIR. 

intention of staying in the town being announced the poHtest ladies 
of the whole town instantly called upon Mrs. Osborne ; and as 
not one of these, however poor they might be, was under the rank 
of a baroness, Jos's delight was beyond expression. He wrote off 
to Chutney at the club to say that the service was highly appre- 
ciated in German}^, that he was going to show his friend, the 
Count de Schliisselback, how to stick a pig in the Indian fashion, 
and that his august friends, the duke and duchess, were everything 
that was kind and civil. 

Emmy, too, was presented to the august family, and as mourn- 
ing is not admitted in court on certain days, she appeared in a 
pink crape dress, with a diamond ornament in the corsage, pre- 
sented to her by her brother, and she looked so pretty in this cos- 
tume that the duke and court (putting out of the question the 
major, who had scarcely ever seen her before in an evening dress, 
and vowed that she did not look five-and-twenty) all admired her 
excessively. 

In this dress she walked a polonaise with Major Dobbin at a 
court ball, in which easy dance Mr. Jos had the honor of leading 
out the Countess of Schliisselback, an old lady with a hump-back, 
but with sixteen good quarters of nobility, and related to half the 
royal houses of Germany. 

Pumpernickel stands in the midst of a happy valley, through 
which sparkles — to mingle with the Rhine somewhere, but I have 
not the map at hand to say exactly at what point — the fertilizing 
stream of the Pump. In some places the river is big enough to 
support a ferryboat, in others to turn a mill ; in Pumpernickel 
itself, the last transparency but three, the great and renowned 
Victor Aurelius XIV. built a magnificent bridge, on which his own 
statue rises, surrounded by water-nymphs and emblems of victory, 
peace, and plenty ; he has his foot on the neck of a prostrate 
Turk — history says he engaged and ran a janissary through the 
body at the relief of Vienna by Sobieski — but, quite undisturbed 
by the agonies of that prostrate Mahometan, who writhes at his 
feet in the most ghastly manner, the prince smiles blandly, and 
points with his truncheon in the direction of the Aurelius Platz, 
where he began to erect a new palace that would have been the 
wonder of his age, had the great-souled prince but had funds to 
complete it. But the completion of Monplaisir (Monblaisir the 
honest German folks call it) was stopped for lack of ready 
money, and it and its park and garden are now in rather a faded 
condition, and not more than ten times big enough to accommo- 
date the court of the reigning sovereign. The gardens were 
arranged to emulate those of Versailles, and amid the terraces and 
groves there are some huge allegorical water-works still, which 



WE MEET AJV OLD ACQUAINTANCE. 705 

spout and froth stupendously upon fete-days, and frighten one 
with their enormous aquatic insurrections. There is the Tropho- 
nius' cave in which, by some artifice, the leaden Tritons are made 
not only to spout water, but to play the most dreadful groans out 
of their lead conchs — there is the Nymph-bath and the Niagara cat- 
aract, which the people of the neighborhood admire beyond expres- 
sion, when they come to the yearly fair at the opening of the 
Chamber, or to the fetes with which the happy little nation still 
celebrates the birthdays and marriage days of its princely gov- 
ernors. 

Then from all the towns 01 the duchy which stretches for nearly 
ten miles — from Bolkum, which lies on its western frontier bidding 
defiance to Prussia, from Grogwitz where the prince has a hunting- 
lodge, and w^here his dominions are separated by the Pump River 
from those of the neighboring Prince of Potzenthal ; from all the 
little villages, which beside these three great cities, dot over the 
happy principality — from the farms and the mills along the Pump, 
come troops of people in red petticoats and velvet head-dresses, or 
with three-cornered hats and pipes in their mouths, who flock to 
the Residenz and share in the pleasures of the fair and the festiv- 
ities there. Then the theater is open for nothing, then the w^aters 
of Monblaisir begin to play (it is lucky that there is company to 
behold them, for one would be afraid to see them alone) — then 
there come mountebanks and riding troops (the way in which his 
transparency was fascinated by one of the horse-riders is well 
known, and it is believed that La Petite Vivandiere, as she w^as 
called, was a spy in the French interest), and the delighted people 
are permitted to march through room after room of the grand 
ducal palace, and admire the slippery floor, the rich hangings, and 
the spittoons at the doors of all the innumerable chambers. There 
is one pavilion at Monblaisir which Aurelius Victor XV. had 
arranged — a great prince, but too fond of pleasure — and which I 
am told is a perfect wonder of licentious elegance. It is painted 
with the story of Bacchus and Ariadne, and the table works in and 
out of the room by means of a windlass so that the company was 
served without any intervention of domestics. But the place w^as 
shut up by Barbara, Aurelius XV.'s widow, a severe and devout 
princess of the House of Bolkum and regent of the duchy during 
her son's glorious minority, and after the death of her husband, cut 
off in the pride of his pleasures. 

The theater of Pumpernickel is known and famous in that quar- 
ter of Germany. It languished a little when the present duke in 
his youth insisted upon having his own operas played there, and 
it is said one day, in a fury, from his place in the orchestra, when 
he attended a rehearsal, broke a bassoon on the head of the chapel 
45 



7o6 VANITY FAIR. 

master, who was conducting and led too slow ; and during which 
time the Duchess Sophia wrote domestic comedies which must 
have been very dreary to witness. But the prince executes his 
music in private now, and the duchess only gives away her plays to 
the foreigners of distinction who visit her kind little court. 

It is conducted with no small comfort and splendor. When 
there are balls, though there may be four hundred people at supper 
there is a servant in scarlet and lace to attend upon every four, 
and every one is served on silver. There are festivals and enter- 
tainments going continually on ; and the duke had his chamber- 
lains and equerries, and the duchess her mistress of the wardrobe 
and ladies of honor, just like any other and more potent potentates. 

The constitution is or was a moderate despotism, tempered by a 
chamber that might or might not be elected. I never certainly 
could hear of its sitting in my time at Pumpernickel. The prime 
minister had lodgings in a second floor; and the foreign secretary 
occupied the comfortable lodgings over Zwieback's Conditory. 
The army consisted of a magnificent band, that also did duty on 
the stage, where it was quite pleasant to see the worthy fellows 
marching in Turkish dres os with rouge on and wooden scimeters, 
or as Roman warriors "with ophicleides and trombones — to see 
them again, I say, at night, after one had listened to them all the 
morning in the Aurelius Platz, where they performed opposite the 
cafe where we breakfasted. Besides the band, there was a rich 
and numerous staff of officers, and, I believe, a few men. Besides 
the regular sentries, three or four men, habited as hussars, used to 
do duty at the palace, but I never saw them on horseback, and 
aufait^ what was the use of cavalry in a time of profound peace t 
— and Wi^LlieT the. deuce should the hussars ride ? 

Everybody— verybody that was noble of course, for as for the 
bourgeois we could not quite be expected to take notice of them 
— visited his neighbor. H.E. Madame de Burst received once a 
week, H.E. Madame de Schnurrbart had her night — the theater was 
open twice a week, the court graciously received once, so that a 
man's life might in fact be a perfect round of pleasure in the un- 
pretending Pumpernickel way. 

That there were feuds in the place, no one can deny. Politics 
ran very high at Pumpernickel, and parties were very bitter. 
There was the Strumpff faction and the Lederlung party, the one 
supported by our envoy and the other by the French charge 
d'affaires, M. de Macabau. Indeed it sufficed for our minister to 
stand up for Madame Strumpff, who was clearly the greater singer 
of the two, and had three more notes in her voice than Madame Led- 
erlung her rival — it sufficed, I say, for our minister to advance any 



1 



WE MEET AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE, 707 

opinion to have it instantly contradicted by the French diplo- 
matist. 

Everybody in the town was ranged in one or other of these 
factions. The Lederlung was a prettyish little creature certainly, 
and her voice (what there was of it) w^as very sweet, and there is 
no doubt that the Strumpff was not in her first youth and beauty, 
and certainly too stout ; when she came on in the last scene of the 
" Somnambula," for instance, in her night-chemise with a lamp in 
her hand, and had to go out of the window, and pass over the 
plank of the mill, it was all she could do to squeeze out of the win- 
dow, and the plank used to bend and creak again under her 
weight — but how she poured out the finale of the opera ? and with 
what a burst of feeling she rushed into Elvino's arms — almost fit 
to smother him ! Whereas the little Lederlung — but a truce to 
this gossip — the fact is, that these two women wejre the two flags 
of the French and the English party at Pumpernickel, and the 
society was divided in its allegiance to those two great nations. 

We had on our side the home minister, the master of the horse, 
the duke's private secretary, and the prince's tutor ; whereas of 
the- French party were the foreign minister, the commander-in- 
chief's lady, who had served under Napoleon, and the Hof-mar- 
schall and his wife, who was glad enough to get the fashions 
from Paris, and always had them and her caps by M. de Maca- 
bau's courier. The secretary of his chancery was little Grignac, a 
young fellow, as malicious as Satan, and who made caricatures of 
Tapeworm in all the albums of the place. 

Their headquarters and table d'hote were established at the 
Pariser Hof, the other inn of the town ; and though, of course, 
these gentlemen were obliged to be civil in public, yet they cut at 
each other with epigrams that were as sharp as razors, as I have 
seen a couple of wrestlers in Devonshire, lashing it each other's 
shins, and never showing their agony upon a muscle of their faces. 
Neither Tapeworm nor Macabau ever sent home a dispatch to his 
government without a most savage series of attacks upon his rival. 
For instance, on our side we would write, " The interests of Great 
Britain in this place, and throughout the whole of Germany, are 
periled by the continuance in office of the present French envoy ; 
this man is of a character so infamous that he will stick at no 
falsehood, or hesitate at no crime, to attain his ends. He poisons 
the mind of the court against the English minister, represents the 
conduct of Great Britain in the most odious and atrocious light, 
and is unhappily backed by a minister whose ignorance and neces- 
sities are as notorious as his influence is fatal." On their side 
they would say, " M. de Tapeworm continues his system of stupid 
insular arrogance and vulgar falsehood against the greatest nation 



7o8 VAiVITY FAIR. 

in the world. Yesterday he was heard to speak Hghtly of her 
Royal Highness Madame the Duchess of Berri ; on a former oc- 
casion he insulted the heroic Duke of Angouleme, and dared 
to insinuate that H.R.H. the Duke of Orleans was conspiring 
against the august throne of the lilies. His gold is prodigated in 
every direction which his stupid menaces fail to frighten. By one 
and the other he has won over creatures of the court here — and, in 
fine, Pumpernickel will not be quiet, Germany tranquil, France 
respected, or Europe content, until this poisonous viper be crushed 
under heel ; " and so on. When one side or the other had written 
any particularly spicy dispatch, news of it was sure to slip out. 

Before the winter was far advanced it is actually on record that 
Emmy took a night and received company with great propriety and 
modesty. She had a French master who complimented her upon 
the purity of her ^accent and her facility of learning ; the fact is 
she had learned long ago, and grounded herself subsequently in 
the grammar so as to be able to teach it to George ; and Madame 
Strumpff came to give her lessons in singing, which she performed 
so well and with such a true voice that the major's windows, who 
had lodgings opposite, under the prime minister, were always open 
to hear the lesson. Some of the German ladies, who are very sen- 
timental and simple in their tastes, fell in love with her and began 
to call her du at once. These are trivial details, but they relate to 
happy times. The major made himself George's tutor, and read 
Caesar and mathematics with him, and they had a German mas- 
ter and rode out of evenings by the side of Emmy's carriage 
— she was always too timid, and made a dreadful outcry at the 
slightest disturbance on horseback. So she drove about with one 
of her dear German friends and Jos asleep on the back seat of the 
barouche. 

He was becoming x&ry sweet upon Graiinn Fanny de Butterbrod, 
a very gentle, tender-hearted and unassuming young creature, a 
canoness and countess in her own right, but with scarcely ten 
pounds per year to her fortune, and Fanny for her part declared 
that to be Amelia's sister was the greatest delight that heaven 
could bestow on her, and Jos might have put a countess's shield 
and coronet by the side of his own arms on his carriage and forks ; 
^vhen — when events occurred, and those grand fetes given upon 
the m.arriage of the hereditary' prince of Pumpernickel with the 
lovely Princess Amelia of Humbourg-Schlippenschloppen took 
place. 

At this festival the magnificence displayed was such as had not 
been known in the little German place since the days of the prod- 
igal Victor XIV. All the neighboring princes, princesses, and 
grandees were invited to the feast. Beds rose to half a crown per 



WE MEET AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE 709 

night in Pumpernickel, and tlie army was exliausted in providing 
guards of honor for the highnesses, serenities, and excellencies, 
who arrived from all quarters. The princess was married by 
proxy, at her father's residence, by the Count de Schliisselback. 
Snuff-boxes were given away in profusion (as we learned from the 
court jeweler, who sold and afterward bought them again), and 
bushels of the order of St. Michael of Pumpernickel were sent to 
the nobles of the court, while hampers of the cordons and decora- 
tions of the Wheel of St Catharine of Schilippenschloppen were 
brought to ours. The French envoy got both. " He is covered 
with ribbons like a prize cart-horse," Tapeworm said, who was not 
allowed by the rules of his service to take any decorations. " Let 
him have the cordons ; but with whom is the victory t " The fact 
is, it was a triumph of British diplomacy ; the French party having 
proposed and tried their utmost to carry a marriage with a prin- 
cess of the house of Potztausend-Donnerwetter, whom, as a matter 
of course, we op^Dosed. 

Everybody was asked to the fetes of the marriage. Garlands 
and triumphal arches were hung across the road to welcome the 
young bride. The great St. Michael's Fountain ran with uncom- 
monly sour wine, while that in the Artillery^ Place frothed with 
beer. The great waters played ; and poles were put up in the 
park and gardens for the happy peasantry, which they might climb 
at their leisure, carying off watches, silver-forks, prize sausages 
hung with pink ribbon, etc., at the top. Georgy got one, wrench- 
ing it off, having swarmed up the pole to the delight of the specta- 
tors, and sliding down with the rapidity of a fall of water. But it 
was for the glory's sake merely. The boy gave the sausage to a peas- 
ant, who had very nearly seized it, and stood at the foot of the 
mast, blubbering, because he was unsuccessful. 

At the French Chancellerie they had six more lampions in their 
illumination than ours had ; but our transparency, which represent- 
ed the young couple advancing, and Discord fiying away, with the 
most ludicrous likeness to the French ambassador, beat the French 
picture hollow ; and I have no doubt got Tapeworm the advance- 
ment and the Cross of the Bath, which he subsequently attained. 

Crowds of foreigners arrived for the fetes ; and of English of 
course. Besides the court balls, public balls were given at the 
Town Hall and the Redoute, and in the former place there was a 
room for t7'e7ite-et-quarante and roulette established for the week of 
the festivities only, and by one of the great German companies 
from Ems or Aix-la-Chapelle. The officers or inhabitants of the 
town were not allowed to play at these games, but strangers, peas- 
ants, ladies were admitted, and any one who chose to lose or win 
money. 



710 VANITY FAIR. 

That little scapegrace Georgy Osborne among others, whose 
pockets were always full of dollars, and whose relations were away 
at the grand festival of the court, came to the Stadthaus ball in 
company of his uncle's courier, Mr. Kirsch, and having only peeped 
into a play-room at Baden Baden when he hung on Dobbin's arm,, 
and where, of course, he was not permitted to gamble, came 
eagerly to this part of the entertainment, and hankered round the 
tables where the croupiers and the punters were at work. Women 
were playing ; they w^ere masked, some of them ; this license was. 
allowed in these wild times of carnival. 

A woman with light hair, in a low dress, by no means so fresh as 
it had been, and with a black mask on, through the eyelets of which 
her eyes twinkled strangely, w^as seated at one of the roulette-tables 
with a card and a pin, and a couple of florins before her. As the 
croupier called out the color and number, she pricked on the card 
with great care and regularity, and only ventured her money on the 
colors after the red or black had come up a certain number of 
times. It was strange to look at her. 

But in spite of her care and assiduity she guessed wrong, and 
the last two florins followed each other under the croupier's rake, 
as he cried out with his inexorable voice, the winning color and 
number. She gave a sigh, a shrug with her shoulders, which were 
already too much out of her gown, and dashing the pin through the 
card on the table, sat thrumming it for awhile. Then she looked 
round her, and saw Georgy's honest face staring at the scene. 
The little scamp ! what business had he to be there ? When she 
saw the boy, at whose face she looked hard through her shining 
eyes and mask, she said, ^'Monsieur n' est pas joiieurV 

^^ Non^ madame^'' said the boy; but she must have known^ from 
his accent, of what country he was, for she answered him with a 
" You have nevare played — will you do me a littl' favor ? " 

" What is it ? " said Georgy, blushing again. Mr. Kirsch was at 
work for his part at the 7'ouge et noir^ and did not see his young 
master. 

" Play this for me, if you please ; put it on any number, any num- 
ber." And she took from her bosom a purse, and out of it a gold 
piece, the only coin there, and she put it into George's hand. The 
boy laughed, and did as he was bid. 

The number came up sure enough. There is a power that ar- 
ranges that, they say, for beginners. 

"Thank you," said she, pulling the money toward her ; " thank 
you. What is your name ? " 

" My name's Osborne," said Georgy, and was fingering in his 
own pockets for dollars, and just about to make a trial, when the 
major, in his uniform, and Jos, en marquis, from the court ball, made 



WE MEET AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE. 



711 



their appearance. Other people finding the entertainment stupid, 
and perf erring the fun at the Stadthaus, had quitted the palace ball 
earlier; but it is probable the major and Jos had gone home and 
found the boy's absence, for the former instantly went up to him, 
and taking him by the shoulder, pulled him briskly back from the 
place of temptation. Then, looking round the room, he saw Kirsch 
employed as we have said, and going up to him asked how he dared 
to bring Mr. George to such a place. 

'■'' Laissez-moi tranquile^'^ said Mr. Kirsch, very much excited by 




play and wine. "Ilfazit s^amuser, parhleii. Je 7ie siiis pas au ser- 
vice de monsieur.^'' 

Seeing his condition, the major did not chose to argue with the 
man ; but contented himself with drawing away George, and ask- 
ing Jos if he would come away. He was standing close by the 
lady in the mask, who was playing with pretty good luck now ; 
and looking on much interested at the game. 

" Hadn't you better come, Jos," the major said, "with George 
and me ? " 

" I'll stop and go home with that rascal, Kirsch," Jos said ; and 



712 VAAVTY FAIR. 

for the same reason of modesty, which he thought ought to be pre- 
sented before the boy, Dobbin did not care to remonstrate with Jos, 
but left him and walked home with Georg}*. 

" Did you play? " asked the major, when they were out, and on 
their way home. 

The boy said " No." 

" Give me your word of honor as a gentleman, that you never 
will.'" 

'*Why.?" said the boy; "it seems ver}- good fun." And, in a 
ver}- eloquent and impressive manner, the major showed him why he 
shouldn't, and would have enforced his precepts by the example of 
Georg}-'s own father, had he liked to say anything that should re- 
flect on the other's memor}*. When he had housed him he went to 
bed, and saw his light, in the little room outside of Amelia's, pres- 
ently disappear. Amelia's followed half an hour after^vard. I 
don't know what made the major note it so accurately. 

Jos, however, remained behind over the play-table ; he was no 
gambler, but not averse to the little excitement of the sport now 
and then ; and he had some Napoleons chinking in the embroi- 
dered pockets of his court waistcoat. He put down one over the fair 
shoulder of the little gambler before him, and they won. She made 
a little movement to make room for him by her side, and just took 
the skirt of her gown from a vacant chair there. 

" Come and give me good luck," she said, still in a foreign ac- 
cent, quite different from that frank and perfectly English " Thank 
you," with which she had saluted Georgy's coitp in her favor. The 
portly gentleman, looking round to see that nobody of rank observed 
him, sat down ; he muttered : " Ah, really, well now, God bless 
:ny soul. I'm ver}' fortunate ; I'm sure to give you good fortune," 
and other words of compliment and confusion. 

" Do you play much ? " the foreign mask said. 

" I put a Nap or two down," said Jos, with a superb air, flinging 
down a gold piece. 

'• Yes ; ay nap after dinner," said the mask, archly. Bnt Jos look- 
ing frightened, she continued, in her pretty French accent, " You 
do not play to win. No more do I. I play to forget, but I can 
not. I can not forget old times, monsieur. Your little nephew is 
the image of his father ; and you — you are not changed — but yes, 
you are. Evervbodv changes, evervbodv forgets ; nobody has anv 
heart." 

" Good God, who is it ? " asked Jos, in a flutter. 

" Can't you guess, Joseph Sedley ? " said the little woman in a 
sad voice, and undoing her mask, she looked at him. " You have 
forgotten me." 

" Good heavens ! Mrs. Crawley ! " gasped out Jos. 



WE MEET AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE. 713 

" Rebecca," said the other, putting her hand on his ; but she fol- 
lowed the game still, all the time she was looking at him. 

"I am stopping at the Elephant," she continued. "Ask for 
Madame de Raudon. I saw my dear Amelia to-day ; how pretty 
she looked, and how happy ! So do you ! Everybody but me, who 
am wretched, Joseph Sedley." And she put her money over from 
the red to the black, as if by a chance movement of her hand, and 
while she was wiping her eyes with a pocket-handkerchief fringed 
with torn lace. 

The red came up again, and she lost the whole of that stake. 
" Come away," she said. " Come with me a little — we are old 
friends, are we not, dear Mr. Sedley ? " 

And Mr. Kirsch having lost all his money by this time, followed 
his master out into the moonlight, where the illuminations were 
winking out, and the transparency over our mission was scarcely 
visible. 



714 



VANITY FAIR. 



CHAPTER LXIV. 



A VAGABOND CHAPTER, 




E must pass over a part of Mrs. Re- 
becca Crawley's biography with that 
lightness and delicacy which die 
world demands — the moral world, 
that has, perhaps, no particular ob- 
jection to vice, but an insuperable re- 
pugnance to hearing vice called by 
its proper name. There are things 
we do and know perfectly well in 
Vanity Fair, though we never speak 
of them ; as the Ahrimanians wor- 
ship the devil, but don't mention 
him : and a polite public will no more 
bear to read an authentic description 
of vice than a truly refined English 
or American female will permit the 
word breeches to be pronounced in 
her chaste hearing. And yet, madam, both are walking the world 
before our faces every day, without much shocking us. If you 
were to blush every time they went by, what complexions you 
would have ! It is only when their naughty names are called out 
that your modest}' has any occasion to show alarm or sense of out- 
rage, and it has been the wish of the present writer, all through this 
story, deferentially to submit to the fashion at present prevailing, 
and only to hint at the existence of wickedness in a light, easy, and 
agreeable manner, so that nobody's fine feelings may be offended. 
I defy any one to say that our Becky, who has certainly some vices, 
has not been presented to the public in a perfectly genteel and in- 
oft'ensive manner. In describing this syren, singing and smiling, 
coaxing and cajoling, the author, with modest pride, asks his read- 
ers all round, has he once forgotten the laws of politeness, and 
showed the monster's hideous tail above water ? No ! Those who 
like may peep down under the waves that are pretty transparent, 
and see it writhing and twirling, diabolically hideous and slimy, flap- 
ping among bones, or curling round corpses; but above the water- 
line, I ask, has not everything been proper, agreeable, and decor- 



A VAGABOND CHAPTER. 715 

■ous, and has any the most squeamish immorahst in Vanity Fair a 
right to cry fie ! When, however, the syren disappears and dives 
below, down among the dead men, the water of course grows tur- 
bid over her, and it is labor lost to look into it ever so curiously. 
They look pretty enough when they sit upon a rock, twanging 
their harps and combing their hair, and sing, and beckon to you 
to come and hold the looking-glass ; but when they sink into their 
native element, depend on it, those mermaids are about no good, 
and we had best not examine the fiendish marine cannibals, revel- 
ing and feasting on their wretched pickled victims. And so, when 
Becky is out of the way, be sure that she is not particularly well 
employed, and that the less that is said about her doings is in fact 
the better. 

If we were to give a full account of her proceedings during a 
couple of years that followed after the Curzon Street catastrophe, 
there might be some reason for people to say this book was im- 
proper. The actions of very vain, heartless, pleasure-seeking peo- 
ple are very often improper (as are many of yours, my friend with 
the grave face and spotless reputation ; — but that is merely by the 
way) ; and what are those of a woman without faith — or love — or 
character ? And I am inclined to think that there was a period in 
Mrs. Becky's life, when she was seized, not by remorse, but by a 
kind of despair, and absolutely neglected her person, and did not 
even care for her reputation. 

This abatteinent and degradation did not take place all at once ; 
it was brought about by degrees, after her calamity, and after many 
struggles to keep up — as a man who goes overboard hangs on to a 
spar while any hope is left, and then flings it away and goes down, 
when he finds that struggling is in vain. 

She lingered about London while her husband was making prep- 
arations for his departure to his seat of government ; and it is 
believed made more than one attempt to see her brother-in-law, Sir 
Pitt Crawley, and to work upon his feelings, which she had almost 
enlisted in her favor. As Sir Pitt and Mr. Wenham were walking 
down to the House of Commons, the latter spied Mrs. Rawdon in 
a black veil, and lurking near the palace of the legislature. She 
sneaked away when her eyes met those of Wenham, and indeed 
never succeeded in her designs upon the baronet. 

Probably Lady Jane interposed. I have heard that she quite as- 
tonished her husband by the spirit which she exhibited in this 
quarrel, and her determination to disown Mrs. Beck}-. Of her own 
movement, she invited Rawdon to come and stop in Gaunt 
Street until his departure for Coventry Island, knowing that with 
him for a guard Mrs. Becky would not tr}' to force her door ; and 
she looked curiously at the. superscriptions of all the letters which 



7i6 VANITY FAIR. 

arrived for Sir Pitt, lest he and his sister-in-law should be corre- 
sponding. Not but that Rebecca could have written had she a 
mind ; but she did not try to see or to write to Pitt at his own 
house, and after one or two attempts consented to his demand that 
the correspondence regarding her conjugal differences should be 
carried on by lawyers only. 

The fact was, that Pitt's mind had been poisoned against her. 
A short time after Lord Steyne's accident Wenham had been with 
the baronet ; and given him such a biography of Mrs. Becky as 
had astonished the member for Queen's Crawley. He knew every- 
thing regarding her ; who her father was ; in what year her mother 
danced at the opera ; what had been her previous history, and 
what her conduct during her married life ; as I have no doubt that 
the greater part of the story was false and dictated by interested 
malevolence, it shall not be repeated here. But Becky was left 
with a sad sad reputation in the esteem of a country gentleman, 
and relative who had been once rather partial to her. 

The revenues of the Governor of Coventry Island are not 
large. A part of them were set aside by his excellency for the 
payment of certain outstanding debts and liabilities, the charges 
incident on his high situation required considerable expense ; 
finally, it was found that he could not spare to his wife more than 
three hundred pounds a year, which he proposed to pay to her on 
an understanding that she would never trouble him. Otherwise : 
scandal, separation, Doctors' Commons would ensue. But it was 
Mr. Wenham's business. Lord Steyne's business, Rawdon's, every- 
body's — to get her out of the country, and hush up a most disa- 
greeable affair. 

She was probably so much occupied in arranging these affairs of 
business with her husband's lawyers, that she forgot to take any 
step whatever about her son, the little Rawdon, and did not even 
once propose to go and see him. That young gentleman was con- 
signed to the entire guardianship of his aunt and uncle, the former 
of whom had always possessed a great share of the child's affection. 
His mamma wrote him a neat letter from Boulogne when she 
quitted England, in which she requested him to mind his book, and 
said she was going to take a continental tour, during which she 
would have the pleasure of writing to him again. But she never 
did for a year afterward, and not, indeed, until Sir Pitt's only boy, 
always sickly, died of whooping-cough and measles — then Raw- 
don's mamma wrote the most affectionate composition to her dar- 
ling son, who was made heir of Queen's Crawley by this accident, 
and drawn more closely then ever to the kind lady, whose tender 
heart had already adopted him. Rawdon Crawley, then grown a 
tall, fine lad, blushed when he got the letter. " Oh, Aunt Jane, 



A VAGABOND CHAPTER. 717 

you are my mother ! " he said ; " and not — and not that one." 
But he wrote back a kind and respectful letter to Mrs. Rebecca, 
then living at a boarding-house at Florence. But we are advanc- 
ing matters. 

Our darling Becky's first flight was not very far. She perched 
upon the French coast at Boulogne, that refuge of so much exiled 
English innocence ; and there lived in rather a genteel, widowed 
manner, with 2ifem7ne de chavibre and a couple of rooms, at a hotel. 
She dined at the table d'hote, where people thought her very pleas- 
ant, and where she entertained her neighbors by stories of her 
brother, Sir Pitt, and her great London acquaintance ; talking that 
easy, fashionable slipslop, which has so much effect upon certain 
folks of small breeding. She passed with many of them for a per- 
son of importance ; she gave little tea-parties in her private room, 
and shared in the innocent amusements of the place — in sea-bath- 
ing, and in jaunts of open carriages, in strolls on the sands, and in vis- 
its to the play. Mrs. Burjoice, the printer's lady, who was boarding 
with her family at the hotel for the summer, and to whom her Bur- 
joice came of a Saturday and Sunday, voted her charming, until 
that little rogue of a Burjoice began to pay her too much attention. 
But there was nothing in the stor}^, only that Becky was chvays 
affable, easy, and good natured — and with men especially. 

Numbers of people were going abroad as usual at the end of 
the season, and Becky had plenty of opportunities of finding out 
by the behavior of her acquaintances of the great London world 
the opinion of " society " as regarded her conduct. One day it 
was Lady Partlet and her daughters whom Becky confronted as 
she was walking modestly on Boulogne pier, the cliffs of Albion 
shining in the distance across the deep blue sea. Lady Partlet 
marshaled all her daughters round her with a sweep of her par- 
asol, and retreated from the pier darting savage glances at poor 
little Becky who stood alone there. 

On another day the packet came in. It had been blowing fresh, 
and it always suited Becky's humor to see the droll woe-begone 
faces of the people as they emerged from the boat. Lady Sling- 
stone happened to be on board this day. Her ladyship had been 
exceedingly ill in her carriage, and was greatly exhausted and 
scarcely fit to walk up the plank from the ship to the pier. But 
all her energies rallied the instant she saw Becky smiling roguishly 
under a pink bonnet ; and giving her a glance of scorn, such as 
would have shriveled up most women, she walked into the custom 
house quite unsupported. Becky only laughed ; but I don't think 
she liked it. She felt she was alone, quite alone ; and the far-off 
shining cliffs of England were impassable to her. 

The behavior of the men had undergone too I don't know what 



7i8 VANITY FAIR. 

change. Grinstone showed his teeth and laughed in her face with 
a famiUarity that was not pleasant. Little Bob Suckling, who was 
cap in hand to her three months before, and would walk a mile in 
the rain to see for her carriage in the line at Gaunt House, was 
talking to Fitzoof of the guards (Lord Heehaw's son) one day 
upon the jetty, as Becky took her walk there. Little Robbie 
nodded to her over his shoulder, without moving his hat, and con- 
tinued his conversation with the heir of Heehaw. Tom Raikes 
tried to walk into her sitting-room at the inn with a cigar in his 
mouth ; but she closed the door upon him and would have locked 
it only that his fingers were inside. She began to feel that she 
was very lonely indeed. *'If he'd been here," she said, "those 
cowards never would have dared to insult me." She thought 
about " him " with great sadness, and perhaps longing — about his 
honest, stupid, constant kindness and fidelity; his never-ceasing 
obedience ; his good-humor ; his bravery and courage. Very likely 
she cried, for she was particularly lively, and had put on a little 
extra rouge when she came down to dinner. 

She rouged regularly now ; and — and her maid got cognac for 
her besides that which was charged in the hotel bill. 

Perhaps the insults of the men were not, however, so intolerable 
to her as the sympathy of certain women. Mrs. Crackenbury and 
Mrs. Washington White passed through Boulogne on their way to 
Switzerland. (The party were protected by Colonel Horner, young 
Beaumoris, and of course old Crackenbury, and Mrs. White's little 
girl.) They did not avoid her. They giggled, cackled, tattled, con- 
doled, consoled, and patronized her until they drove her almost 
wild with rage. To be patronized by them ! she thought, as they 
went away simpering after kissing her. And she heard Beaumor- 
is's laugh ringing on the stair, and knew quite well how to inter- 
pret his hilarity. 

It was after this visit that Becky, who had paid her weekly bills, 
Becky who had made herself agreeable to everybody in the house, 
who smiled at the landlady, called the waiters " monsieur," and paid 
the chambermaids in politeness and apologies, w^hat far more than 
compensated for a little niggardliness in point of money (of which 
Becky never was free), that Becky, we say, received a notice to 
quit from the landlord, who had been told by some one that she 
was quite an unfit person to have at his hotel, where English ladies 
would not sit down with her. And she was forced to fly into lodg- 
ings, of which the dullness and solitude were most wearisome to 
her. 

Still she held up, in spite of these rebuffs, and tried to make a 
character for herself, and conquer scandal. She went to church 
very regularly, and sang louder than anybody there. She took up 



A VAGABOND CHAPTER. 719 

the cause of the widows of the shipwrecked fishermen, and gave 
work and drawings for the Quashyboo Alission ; she subscribed to 
the assembly and wouldn't waltz. In a word she did ever}lhing 
that was respectable, and that is why we dwell upon this part of 
her career with more fondness than upon subsequent parts of her 
history, which are not so pleasant. She saw people avoiding her, and 
still laboriously smiled upon them ; you never could suppose from 
her countenance what pangs of humiliation she might be enduring 
inwardly. 

Her history was after all a mxystery. Parties were divided about 
her. Some people, who took the trouble to busy themselves in the 
matter, said that she was the criminal ; while others vowed that 
she was as innocent as a lamb, and that her odious husband was 
in fault. She won over a good many by bursting into tears about 
her boy, and exhibiting the most frantic grief when his name was 
m.entioned, or she saw anybody like him. She gained good Mrs. 
Alderney's heart in that way, who was rather the Queen of British 
Boulogne, and gave the most dinners and balls of all the residents 
there, by weeping when Master Alderney came from Dr. Swishtail's 
academy to pass his holidays with his mother. " He and her 
Rawdon were of the same age, and so like," Becky said, in a voice 
choking with agony ; whereas there was five years' difference between 
the boys' ages, and no more likeness bet^veen them than between 
my respected reader and his humble sen^ant. Wenham, when he 
was going abroad, on his way to Kissingen to join Lord Steyne, 
enlightened Mrs. Alderney on this point, and told her how he was 
much more able to describe little Rawdon than his mamma, who 
notoriously hated him, and never saw him ; how he was thirteen 
years old, while little Alderney was but nine ; fair, while the other 
darling was dark — in a word, caused the lady in question to repent 
of her good humor. 

Whenever Becky made a little circle for herself with incredible 
toils and labor, somebody came and swept it down rudeh^, and she 
had all her work to begin over again. It was ver}^ hard ; very hard ; 
lonely and disheartening. 

There was Mrs. Newbright, who took her up for some time, at 
tracted by the sweetness of her singing at church, and by her prop- 
er views upon serious subjects, concerning which in former days, 
at Queen's Crawley, Mrs. Becky had had a good deal of instruction. 
Well, she not only took tracts, but she read them. She worked 
flannel petticoats for the Quash3-boos — cotton night-caps for the 
Cocoanut Indians — painted hand-screens for the conversion of the 
pope and the Jews — sat under Mr. Rowls on Wednesdays, Mr 
Huggleton on Thursdays, attended two Sunday services at church, 
besides Mr. Bawler, the Darb3'ite, in the evening, and all in vain. 



720 VANITY FAIR. 

Mrs. Newbright had occasion to correspond with the Countess of 
Southdown about the Warmingpan Fund for the Feejee Islanders 
(for the management of which admirable charities both these ladies 
formed part of a female committee), and having mentioned her 
" sweet friend," Mrs. Rawdon Crawley, the dowager countess wrote 
back such a letter regarding Beck}^, with such particular hints, 
facts, falsehoods, and general comminations, that intimacy between 
Mrs. Newbright and Mrs. Crawley ceased forthwith ; and all the 
serious world of Tours, where this misfortune took place, immedi- 
ately parted company with the reprobatCc Those who know the 
Enghsh colonies abroad know that we carry with us our pride, pills, 
prejudices, Harvey-sauces, cayenne-peppers, and other lares, mak- 
ing a little Britain wherever we settle down. 

From one colony to another Becky fled uneasily. From Bou- 
logne to Dieppe, from Dieppe to Caen, from Caen to Tours — trying 
with all her might to be respectable, and alas ! always found out 
some day or other, and pecked out of the cage by the real daws. 

Mrs. Hook Eagles took her up at one of these places — a woman 
without a blemish in her character, and a house in Portman Square. 
She was staying at the hotel at Dieppe, whither Becky fled, and 
they made each other's acquaintance first at sea, where they were 
swimming together, and subsequently at the table d'hote of the 
hotel. Mrs. Eagles had heard — who indeed had not? — some of 
the scandal of the Steyne affair ; but after a conversation with 
Becky, she pronounced that Mrs. Crawley was an angel, her hus- 
band a ruffian, Lord Steyne an unprincipled wretch, as everybody 
knew, and the whole case against Mrs. Crawley an infamous and 
wicked conspiracy of that rascal Wenham. " If you were a man 
of any spirit, Mr. Eagles, you would box the wretch's ears the next 
time you see him at the club," she said to her husband. But 
Eagles was only a quiet old gentleman, husband to Mrs. Eagles, 
with a taste for geology, and not tall enough to reach anybody's 
ears. 

The Ergles then patronized Mrs. Rawdon, took her to live with her 
at her own house at Paris, quarreled with the ambassador's wife 
because she would not receive her protegee, and did all that lay in 
woman's power to keep Becky straight in the paths of virtue and 
good repute, 

Becky was very respectable and orderly at first, but the life of 
humdrum virtue grew utterly tedious to her before long. It was 
the same routine every day, the same dullness and comfort, the 
same drive over the same stupid Bois de Boulogne, the same com- 
pany of an evening, the same Blair's sermon of a Sunday night — 
the same opera always being acted over and over again ; Becky 
was dying of weariness, when, luckily for her, young Mr. Eagles 



A VAGABOND CHAPTER. 721 

came from Cambridge, and his mother, seeing the impression 
which her little friend made upon him, straightway gave Becky 
warning. 

Then she tried keeping house with a female friend ; then the 
double 7nenage began to quarrel and get into debt. Then she de- 
termined upon a boarding-house existence, and lived for some time 
at that famous mansion kept by Madame de Saint Amour, in the 
Rue Royale, at Paris, where she began exercising her graces and 
fascinations upon the shabby dandies and fly-blown beauties who 
frequented her landlady's salons. Becky loved society, and, 
indeed, could no more exist without it than an opium-eater with- 
out his dram, and she was happy enough at the period of her 
boarding-house life. " The women here are as amusing as those 
in May Fair," she told an old London friend who met her — " only 
their dresses are not quite so fresh. The men wear cleaned 
gloves, and are sad rogues, certainly, but they are not worse than 
Jack This and Tom That. The mistress of the house is a little 

vulgar, but I don't think she is so vulgar as Lady "and here 

she named the name of a great leader of fashion that I would die 
rather than reveal. In fact, when you saw Madame de Saint 
Amour's rooms lighted up of a night, men with //(^^z/^i- and cordons 
at the /r<7;Y/ tables, and the women at a little distance, you might 
fancy yourself for awhile in good society, and that madame was a 
real countess. Many people did so fancy; and Becky was for 
awhile one of the most dashing ladies of the countess's salons. 

But it is probable that her old creditors of 18 15 found her out 
and caused her to leave Paris, for the poor little woman was 
forced to fly from the city rather suddenly ; and went thence to 
Brussels. 

How well she remembered the place ! She grinned as she 
looked up at the little entresol wYiioki she had occupied, and thought 
of the Bareacres family, bawling for horses and flight, as their 
carriage stood in the porte-cochere of the hotel. She went to Water- 
loo and to Laeken, where George Osborne's monument much 
struck her. She made a little sketch of it. " That poor Cupid ! " 
she said ; " how dreadfully he was in love with me, and what a fool 
he was ! I wonder whether little Emmy is alive. It was a good 
little creature ; and that fat brother of hers. I have his funny fat 
picture still among my papers. They were kind, simple people." 

At Brussels Becky arrived, recommended by Madame de Saint 
Amour to her friend, Madame la Comtesse de Borodino, widow of 
Napoleon's general, the famous Count de Borodino, who was 
left with no resource by the deceased hero but that of a table d' hbte, 
and an ecarte' table. Second-rate dandies and roues, widow ladies 
who always have a law-suit, and very simple English folks, who 
46 



722 VANITY FAIR. 

fancy they see " continental society " at these houses, put down 
their money, or ate their meals, at Madame de Borodino's tables. 
The gallant young fellows treated the company round to cham- 
pagne at the table dlwte, rode out with the women, or hired 
horses on country excursions, clubbed money to take boxes at the 
play or the opera, betted over the fair shoulders of the ladies at 
the ecarte tables, and wrote home to their parents, in Devonshire, 
about their felicitous introduction to foreign jociety. 

Here, as at Paris, Becky was a boarding-house queen ; and ruled 
m select pejisioiis. She never refused the champagne, or the 
bouquets, or the drives into the country, or the private boxes ; but 
what she preferred was the ecarte at night — a::d she played 
audaciously. First she played only for a little, then for five-franc 
pieces, then for Napoleons, then for notes ; then she would not be 
able to pay her month's pension; then she borrowed from the 
young gentlemen ; then she got into cash again, and bullied 
Madame de Borodino, whom she had coaxed and wheedled before ; 
then she was playing for ten sous at a time, and in a dire state of 
poverty ; then her quarter's allowance would come in, and she 
would pay off Madame de Borodino's score, and would once more 
take the cards against Monsieur de Rossignol, or the Chevalier de 
Raif. 

When Becky left Brussels, the sad truth is, that she owed three 
months' pension to Madame de Borodino, of which fact, and of the 
gambling, and of the drinking, and of the going down on her knees 
to the Reverend Mr. Muff, ministre Anglican, and borrowing 
money of him, and of her coaxing and flirting with Milor Noodle, 
son of Sir Noodle, pupil of the Rev. Mr. Muff, whom she used to 
take into her private room, and of whom she won large sums at 
ecarte — of which fact, I say, and of a hundred of her other knaveries, 
the Countess de Borodino informs every English person who stops 
at her establishment, and announces that Madame Rawdon was no 
better than a vipere. 

So our little wanderer went about setting up her tent in various 
cities of Europe, as restless as Ulysses or Bampfylde Moore Carew. 
Her taste for disrespectabili-ty grew more and more remarkable. 
She became a perfect Bohemian ere long, herding with people 
whom it would make your hair stand on end to meet. 

There is no town of any mark in Europe but it has its little col- 
ony of English raffs — men whose names Mr. Hemp the officer reads 
out periodically at the sheriff's court — young gentlemen of very 
good family often, only that the latter disowns them ; frequenters 
of billiard-rooms and estaminets, patrons of foreign races and gam- 
ing-tables. They people the debtors' prisons — they drink and 
swagger — they fight and brawl — they run away without paying — 



4 VAGABOND CHAPTER. 



723 



they have duels with French and German officers — they cheat Mr. 
Spooney at ecarte — they get the money and drive off to Baden in 
magnificent britzskas — they try their infaUible martingale, and lurk 
about the tables with empty pockets, shabby bullies, penniless 
bucks, until they can swindle a Jew banker with a sham bill of ex- 
change, or find another Mr. Spooney to rob. The alternations of 
splendor and misery which these people undergo ax^e very queer to 




view. Their life must be one of great excitement. Becky — must 
it be owned ? — took to this life, and took to it not unkindly. She 
went about from town to town among these Bohemians. The lucky 
Mrs. Rawdon was known at every play-table in Germany. She 
and Madame de Cruchecassee kept house at Florence together. 
It is said she was ordered out of Munich; and my friend Mr. 
Frederick Pigeon avers that it was at her house at Lausanne that 



724 VAXITY FAIR. 

he was hocussed at supper, and lost eight hundred pounds to 
Major Loder and the Honorable Mr. Deuceace. We are bound, 
you see, to give some account of Becky's biography ; but of this 
part, the less, perhaps, that is said the better. 

They say that, when ^Irs. Crawley was particularly down on her 
luck, she gave conceits and lessons in music here and there. 
There was a Madame de Raudon who certainly had a mati7iee 
muskale at Wildbad, accompanied by Herr Spoff, premier pianist to 
the Hospodar of Wallachia, and my little friend Mr. Eaves, who 
knew everybody, and had traveled ever}'where. always used to de- 
clare that he was at Strasburg in the year 1830, when a certain 
Madame Rebecque made her appearance in the opera of the Dajnc 
Bla7iche, gi^'ing occasion to a furious row in the theater there. 
She was hissed off the stage by the audience, partly from her 
own incompetency, but chiefly from the ill-advised sympathy of 
some persons in the parquet (where the officers of the garrison had 
their admissions) ; and Eaves was certain that the unfortunate 
debutante in question was no other than jSIrs. Rawdon Crawley. 

She was, in fact, no better than a vagabond upon this earth. 
When she got her money she gambled : when she had gambled it 
she was put to shifts to live ; who knows how or by what means 
she succeeded? It is said that she was once seen at St. Petersburg, 
but was summarily dismissed from that capital by the police, so 
that there can not be any possibility of truth in the report that she 
was a Russian spy at Toplitz and Vienna afterward. I have even 
been informed that at Paris she discovered a relation of her own, 
no less a person than her maternal grandmother, who was not by 
any means a Montmorenci, but a hideous old box-opener at a thea- 
ter on the Boulevards. The meeting between them, of which other 
persons, as it is hinted elsewhere, seem to have been acquainted, 
must have been a very affecting interview. The present historian 
can give no certain details regarding the event. 

It happened at Rome once, that ]\Irs. de Rawdon's half-year's 
salar}' had just been paid into the principal banker's there, and, as 
evervbody who had a balance of above five hundred scudi was in- 
\-ited to the balls which this prince of merchants gave during the 
winter, Becky had the honor of a card, and appeared at one of 
the Prince and Princess Polonia's splendid evening entertainments. 
The princess was of the family of Pompili. lineally descended from 
the second king of Rome, and Egeria of the house of Olympus, 
while the prince's grandfather, Alessandro Polonia, sold wash-balls, 
essences, tobacco, and pocket-handkerchiefs, ran errands for gentle- 
men, and lent money in a small way. All the great company in 
Rome thronged to his saloons — princes, dukes, ambassadors, artists, 
iddlers, monsignori, young bears with their leaders — ever)^ rank 





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A VAGABOND CHAPTER. 



725 



and condition of men. His balls blazed with light and magnifi- 
cence — were resplendent with gilt frames (containing pictures) and 
dubious antiques ; and the enormous gilt crown and arms of the 
princely owner, a gold mushroom on a crimson field (the color of 
the pocket-handkerchiefs which he sold), and the silver fountain of 
the Pompili family, shone all over the roof, doors, and panels of 
the house, and over the grand velvet baldaquins prepared to re- 
ceive popes and emperors. 

So Becky, who had arrived in the diligence from Florence, and 



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was lodged at an inn in a very modest way, got a card for Prince 
Polonia's entertainment, and her maid dressed her with unusual 
care, and she went to this fine ball leaning on the arm of Major 
Loder, with whom she happened to be traveling at the time (the 
same man who shot Prince Ravioli at Naples the next year, and 
was caned by Sir John Buckskin for carrying four kings in his hat 
besides those w^hich he used in playing at ecarte) : and this pair 
Avent into the room.s together, and Becky saw a number of old faces 



726 VANITY FAIR. 

which she remembered in happier days, when she was not innocent, 
but not found out. Major Loder knew a great number of foreign- 
ers, keen-looking, w'hiskered men, with dirty striped ribbons in their 
button-holes, and a very small display of linen ; but his own coun- 
tr}'men, it might be remarked, eschewed the major. Becky, too, 
knew some ladies here and there — French widows, dubious Italian 
countesses, whose husbands had treated them ill — faugh — what 
shall we say, we who have moved among some of the finest com- 
pany of Vanity Fair, of this refuse and sediment of rascals ? If we 
play, let it be with clean cards, and not with this dirty pack. But 
every man who has formed one of the innumerable army of trav- 
elers has seen these marauding irregulars hanging on like Nym 
and Pistol, to the main force ; wearing the king's colors and boast- 
ing of his commission, but pillaging for themselves, and occasion- 
ally gibbeted by the roadside. 

Well, she was hanging on the arm of Major Loder, and they 
went through the rooms together, and drank a great quantity of 
champagne at the buffet, where the people, and especially the 
major's irregular corps, struggled furiously for refreshments, of 
which when the pair had had enough, they pushed on until they 
reached the duchess's own pink velvet saloon, at the end of the 
suite of apartments (where the statue of the Venus is, and the great 
Venice looking-glasses, framed in silver), and where the princely 
family were entertaining their most distinguished guests at a round 
table at supper. It was just such a little select banquet as that of 
which Becky recollected that she had partaken at Lord Steyne's — 
and there he sat at Polonia's table, and she saw him. 

The scar cut by the diamond on his white, bald, shining fore- 
head, made a burning red mark ; his red whiskers were dyed of a pur- 
ple hue, which made his pale face look still paler. He wore his 
collar and orders, his blue ribbon and garter. He was a greater 
prince than any there, though there was a reigning duke and a 
royal highness, with their princesses, and near his lordship was 
seated the beautiful Countess of Belladonna, nee de Glandier, 
whose husband (the Count Paolo della Belladonna), so well known 
for his brilliant entomological collections, had been long absent on 
a mission to the Emperor of Morocco. 

When Becky beheld that familiar and illustrious face, how vulgar 
all of a sudden did Major Loder appear to her, and how that odi- 
ous Captain Rook did smell of tobacco ! In one instant she re- 
assumed her fine ladyship, and tried to look and feel as if she was 
in May Fair once more. " That woman looks stupid and ill-hu- 
mored," she thought ; " I am sure she can't amuse him. No, he 
must be bored by her — he never was by me." A hundred such 
touching hopes, fears, and memories palpitated in her little heart, 



A VAGABOND CHAPTER. 727 

as she looked with her brightest eyes (the rouge which she wore 
up to her eyelids made them twinkle) toward the great nobleman. 

Of a star and garter night Lord Steyne used also to put on his 
grandest manner, and to look and speak like a great prince as he 
was. Becky admired him smiling sumptuously, easy, lofty, and 
stately. Ah, bo7i Dieu, what a pleasant companion he was, what 
a brilliant wit, what a rich fund of talk, what a grand manner ! — 
and she had exchanged this for Major Loder, reeking of cigars and 
brandy and water, and Captain Rook with his horse-jockey jokes 
and prize-ring slang, and their like. " I wonder whether he will 
know me," she thought. Lord Steyne was talking and laughing 
with a great and illustrious lady at his side, when he looked up 
and saw Becky. 

She was all over in a flutter as their eyes met, and she put on 
the very best smile she could muster, and dropped him a Httle, 
timid, imploring courtesy. He stared aghast at her for a minute, 
as Macbeth might on beholding Banquo's sudden appearance at 
his ball-supper; and remained looking at her with open mouth, 
when that horrid Major Loder pulled her away. 

"Come away into the supper room, Mrs. R.," was that gen- 
tleman's remark ; " seeing these nobs grubbing away has made 
me peckish too. Let's go and try the old governor's cham- 
pagne." Becky thought the major had had a great deal too much 
already. 

The day after she went to walk on the Pincian Hill — the Hyde 
Park of the Roman idlers — possibly in hopes to have another sight 
of Lord Steyne. But she met another acquaintance there : it was 
Mr. Fiche, his lordship's confidential man, who came up nodding 
to her rather familiarly, and putting his finger to his hat, " I knew 
that madame was here," he said ; " I followed her from her hotel. 
I have some advice to give madame." 

" From the Marquis of Steyne ? " Becky asked, resuming as much 
of her dignity as she could muster, and not a little agitated by 
hope and expectation. 

" No," said the valet; " it is from me. Rome is very unwhole< 
some." 

" Not at this season. Monsieur Fiche — not till after Easter." 

" I tell madame it is unwholesome now. There is always malaria 
for some people. That cursed marsh wind kills many at all seas- 
ons. Look, Madame Crawley, you were always bo7i ejifant, and I 
have an interest in you, parole d'ho7i?ietir. Be warned. Go away 
from Rome, I tell you — or you will be ill and die." 

Becky laughed, though in rage and fury. " What ! assassinate 
poor little me ? " she said. " How romantic ! Does my lord carry 
bravos for couriers, and stilettos in the fourgons .? Bah ! I will 



728 VANITY FAIR. 

Stay, if but to plague hinio I have those who will defend me while 
I am here." 

It was Monsieur Fiche's turn to laugh now. " Defend you," he 
said, " and who ? The major, the captain, any of these gambling 
men whom madame sees, would take her life for a hundred louis 
We know things about Major Loder (he is no more major than I 
am my lord the marquis) which would send him to the galle3^s or 
worse. We know everything, and have friends everywhere. We 
know whom you saw at Paris, and what relations you found there. 
Yes, madame may stare, but we do. How was it that no minister 
on the continent w^ould receive madame t She has offended some- 
body ; w^ho never forgives — whose rage redoubled when he saw 
you. He was like a madman last night when he came home. Ma- 
dame de Belladonna made him a scene about you and fired off in 
one of her furies." 

" Oh, it was Madame de Belladonna, was it ? " Becky said, re- 
lieved a little, for the information she had just got had scared her. 

" No — she does not matter — she is always jealous. I tell you 
it was monseigneur. You did wrong to show yourself to him. 
And if you stay here you will repent it. Mark my words. Go. 
Here is my lord's carriage " — and seizing Becky's arm, he rushed 
down an alley of the garden as Lord Steyne's barouche, blazing 
with heraldic devices, came whirling along the avenue, borne by 
the almost priceless horses, and bearing Madame de Belladonna 
lolling on the cushions, dark, sulky, and blooming, a King Charles 
in her lap, a white parasol swaying over her head, and old Steyne 
stretched at her side with a livid face and ghastly eyes. Hate, or 
anger, or desire, caused them to brighten now and then still ; but 
ordinarily they gave no light, and seemed tired of looking out on a 
world of which almost all the pleasure and all the best beauty had 
palled upon the worn-out, wicked old man. 

" Monseigneur has never recovered the shock of that night, 
never," Monsieur Fiche whispered to Mrs. Crawley as the car* 
riage flashed by, and she peeped out at it from behind the shrubs 
that hid her. " That was a consolation at any rate," Becky 
thought. 

Whether my lord really had murderous intentions toward Mrs. 
Becky as Monsieur Fiche said — (since monseigneur's death he has 
returned to his native country, where he lives much respected, and 
has purchased from his prince the title of Baron Ficci) — and the 
factotum objected to have to do with assassination ; or whether he 
simply had a commission to frighten Mrs. Crawley out of a city 
where his lordship proposed to pass the winter, and the sight of 
her would be eminently disagreeable to the great nobleman, is a 
point which has never been ascertained ; but the threat had its ef- 



A VAGABOND CHAPTER. 729 

feet upon the little woman, and she sought no more to intrude her- 
self upon the presence of her old patron. 

Everybody knows the melancholy end of that nobleman, which 
befell at Naples two months after the French Revolution of 1830 ; 
when the Most Honorable George Gustavus, Marquis of Steyne, 
Earl of Gaunt and of Gaunt Castle, in the Peerage of Ireland, 
Viscount Hellborough, Baron Pitchley and Grillsby, a knight of 
the most noble Order of the Garter, of the Golden Fleece of Spainj 
of the Russian Order of St. Nicholas of the First Class, of the 
Turkish Order of the Crescent, First Lord of the Powder Closet 
and Groom of the Back Stairs, Colonel of the Gaunt or Regent's 
Own Regiment of Militia, a Trustee of the British Museum, an el- 
der Brother of the Trinity Plouse, a Governor of the White Friars, 
and D.C.L. — died after a series of fits, brought on, as the papers 
said, by the shock occasioned to his lordship's sensibilities by the 
downfall of the ancient French monarchy. 

An eloquent catalogue appeared in a weekly print, describing 
his virtues, his magnificence, his talents, and his good actions. 
His sensibility, his attachment to the illustrious House of Bour- 
bon, with which he claimed an alliance, were such that he could 
not survive the misfortunes of his august kinsmen. His body was 
buried at Naples, and his heart — that heart which always beat with 
every generous and noble emotion — was brought back to Castle 
Gaunt in a silver urn. " In him," Mr. Wagg said, " the poor and 
the fine arts have lost a beneficent patron, society one of its most 
brilliant ornaments, and England one of her loftiest patriots and 
statesmen," etc., etc. 

His will was a good deal disputed, and an attempt was made to 
force from Madame de Belladonna the celebrated jewel called the 
" Jew's-eye " diamond, which his lordship always wore on his fore- 
finger, and which it was said that she removed from it after his la- 
mented demise. But his confidential friend and attendant, Mon- 
sieur Fiche, proved that the ring had been presented to the said 
Madame de Belladonna two days before the marquis's death ; as 
were the bank-notes, jewels, Neapolitan and French bonds, etc., 
found in his lordship's secretaire, and claimed by his heirs from, 
that injured woman. 



730 



VANITY FAIR. 



CHAPTER LXV. 



FULL OF BUSINESS AND PLEASURE. 



HE day after the meeting at the 
play-table, Jos had himself 
arrayed with unusual care and 
splendor, and without thinking 
it necessary to say a word to 
any member of his family re- 
garding the occurrences of the 
previous night, or asking for 
their company in his walk, he 
sallied forth at an early hour, 
and was presently seen making 
inquiries at the door of the 
Elephant Hotel. In conse- 
quence of the fetes the house 
was full of company, the tables 
in the street were already sur- 
rounded by persons smoking 
and drinking the national small 
beer, the public rooms were in 
a cloud of smoke ; and Mr. 
Jos having, in his pompous way, and with his clumsy German, 
made inquiries for the person of whom he was in search, was 
directed to the very top of the house — above the first-floor rooms 
where some traveling peddlers had lived, and were exhibiting their 
jewelr}' and brocades — above the second-floor apartments occupied 
by the etat uiajor of the gambling firm — above the third-floor rooms, 
tenanted by the band of renowned Bohemian vaulters and tumblers ; 
and so on to the little cabins of the roof, where, among students, 
bag-men, small tradesmen, and country-folks, come in for the fes- 
tival, Becky had found a little nest — as dirty a little refuge as ever 
beauty lay hid in. 

Becky liked the life. She was at home with everybody in the 
place — peddlers, punters, tumblers, students, and all. She was of a 
wild, roving nature, inherited from father and mother, who were 
both Bohemians by taste and circumstance ; if a lord was not by, 
she would talk to his courier with the greatest pleasure ; the din, 




FULL OF BUSINESS AND PLEASURE. 731 

the Stir the drink, the smoke, the tattle of the Hebrew peddlers, the 
solemn, braggart ways of the poor tumblers, the soiirnois talk of 
the gambling-table officials, the songs and swagger of the students, 
and the general buzz and hum of the place, had pleased and tickled 
the little woman, even when her luck was down, and she had not 
wherewithal to pay her bill. How pleasant was all the bustle to 
her now that her purse was full of the money which little Georgy 
had won for her the night before ! 

As Jos came creaking and puffing up the final stairs, and was 
speechless when he got to the landing, and began to wipe his face 
and then to look for No. 92, the room where he was directed to 
seek for the person he wanted, the door of the opposite chamber, 
No. 90, was open, and a student, in jack-boots, and a dirty schla- 
frock, was lying on the bed smoking a long pipe ; while another 
student in long yellow hair, and a braided coat, exceeding smart 
and dirty too, was actually on his knees at No. 92, bawling through 
the key-hole supplications to the person within. 

" Go away," said a well-known voice, which made Jos thrill, " I 
expect somebody ; I expect my grandpapa. He mustn't see you 
there." 

" Angel Englanderinn ! " belowed the kneeling student with the 
whity-brown ringlets and large finger ring, " do take compassion 
upon us. Make an appointment. Dine with me and Fritz at the 
inn in the park. We will have roast pheasants and porter, plum- 
pudding and French wine. We shall die if you don't." 

" That we will," said the young nobleman on the bed ; and this 
colloquy Jos overheard, though he did not comprehend it, for the 
reason that he had never studied the language in which it was 
carried on. 

''^ New7nero katte^'vang dooze, si vous plait,^' Jos said, in his 
grandest manner, when he was able to speak. 

'' Quater fang tooce T' said the student, starting up, and he 
bounced into his own room, where he locked the door, and where 
Jos heard him laughing with his comrade on the bed. 

The gentleman from Bengal was standing disconcerted by this 
incident, when the door of the 92 opened of itself, and Becky's little 
head peeped out full of archness and mischief. She lighted on Jos. 
" It's you," she said, coming out. " How I have been waiting for 
you ! Stop ! not yet — in one minute you shall come in." In that 
instant she put a rouge-pot, a brandy bottle, and a plate of broken 
meat into the bed, gave one smooth to her hair, and finally let in 
her visitor. 

She had, by way of a morning robe, a pink domino, a trifle faded 
and soiled, and marked here and there with pomatum ; but her 
arm.s shone out from the loose sleeves of the dress verv white and 



732 



VANITY FAIR. 



fair, and it was tied round her little waist, so as not ill to set off 
the trim little figure of the wearer. She led Jos by the hand into 
her garret. " Come in," she said. " Come, and talk to me. Sit 
yonder on the chair ; " and she gave the civilian's hand a little 
squeeze, and laughingly placed him upon it. As for herself, she 
placed herself on the bed — not on the bottle and plate, you may be 

id,-- 




sure — on which Jos might have reposed, had he chosen that seat ; 
and so there she sat and talked with her old admirer. 

" How little years have changed you," she said, with a look of 
tender interest. " I should have known you anywhere. What a 
comfort it is among strangers to see once more the frank, honest 
face of an old friend ! " 



FULL OF BUSINESS AND PLEASURE. 733 

The frank, honest face, to tell the truth, at this moment bore any 
expression but one of openness and honesty ; it was, on the con- 
trary, much perturbed and puzzled in look. Jos was surveying the 
queer little apartment in which he found his old flame. One of 
her gowns hung over the bed, another depending from a hook of 
the door ; her bonnet obscured half the looking-glass, on which, 
too, lay the prettiest little pair of bronze boots ; a French novel 
was on the table by the bedside, with a candle, not of wax. Becky 
thought of popping that into the bed, too, but she only put in the 
little paper night-cap with which she had put the candle out on 
going to sleep. 

" I should have known you anywhere," she continued ; " a 
woman never forgets some things. And you were the first man I 
ever — I ever saw." 

" Was I, really ? " said Jos. " God bless my soul, you — you don't 
say so." 

" When I came with your sister from Chiswick, I was scarcely 
more than a child," Becky said. " How is that dear love ? Oh, 
her husband was a sad wicked man, and of course it was of me 
that the poor dear was jealous. As if I cared about him, heigho ! 
when there was somebody — but no — don't let us talk of old 
times ; " and she passed her handkerchief with the tattered lace 
across her eyelids. 

" Is not this a strange place," she continued, " for a woman, who 
has lived in a very different world too, to be found in } I have 
had so many griefs and wrongs, Joseph Sedley, I have been made 
to suffer so cruelly that I am almost made mad sometimes. I can't 
stay still in any place, but wander about always restless and un- 
happy. All my friends have been false to me — all. There is no 
such thing as an honest man in the world. I was the truest wife 
that ever lived, though I married my husband out of pique, because 
somebody else — but never mind that. I was true, and he trampled 
upon me, and deserted me. I was the fondest mother. I had but 
one child, one darling, one hope, one joy, which I held to my 
heart with a mother's affection, which was my life, my prayer, my 
— my blessing ; and they — they tore it from me — tore it from me ; " 
and she put her hand to her heart with a passionate gesture of 
despair, burying her face for a moment on the bed. 

The brandy-bottle inside clinked up against the plate which held 
the cold sausage. Both were moved, no doubt, by the exhibition 
of so much grief. Max and Fritz were at the door listening with 
wonder to Mrs. Becky's sobs and cries. Jos, too, was a good deal 
frightened and affected at seeing his old flame in this condition. 
And she began, forthwith, to tell her story — a tale so neat, simple, 
and artless, that it was quite evident from hearing her, that if 



734 VANITY TAIK. 

ever there was a white-robed angel escaped from heaven to be 
subject to the infernal machinations and villainy of fiends here 
below, that spotless being — that miserable unsullied martyr, was 
present on the bed before Jos — on the bed, sitting on the brandy- 
bottle. 

They had a very long, amicable, and confidential talk there ; in 
the course of which Jos Sedley was somehow made aware, but in 
a manner that did not in the least scare or offend him, that 
Becky's heart had first learned to beat at his enchanting presence ; 
that George Osborne had certainly paid an unjustifiable court to 
her, which might account for Amelia's jealousy, and their little 
rupture ; but that Becky never gave the least encouragement to 
the unfortunate officer, and that she had never ceased to think 
about Jos from the very first day she had seen him, though, of 
course, her duties as a married woman were paramount — duties 
which she had always preserv'ed, and would, to her dying day, or 
until the proverbially bad climate in which Colonel Crawley was 
living should release her from a yoke which his cruelty had ren- 
dered odious to her. 

Jos went away, convinced that she was the most virtuous, as she 
^as one of the most fascinating of women, and revolving in his 
mind all sorts of benevolent schemes for her welfare. Her perse- 
cutions ought to be ended ; she ought to return to the society of 
which she was an ornament. He would see what ought to be 
done. She must quit that place, and take a quiet lodging. Amelia 
must come and see her, and befriend her. He would go and settle 
about it, and consult with the major. She wept tears of heartfelt 
gratitude as she parted from him, and pressed his hand as the gal- 
lant stout gentleman stooped down to kiss hers. 

So Becky bowed Jos out of her little garret with as much grace 
as if it was a palace of which she did the honors ; and that heavy 
gentleman having disappeared down the stairs, Hans and Fritz 
came out of their hole, pipe in mouth, and she amused herself by 
mimicking Jos to them as she munched her cold bread and saus- 
age and took draughts of her favorite brandy and water. 

Jos walked over to Dobbin's lodgings with great solemnity, and 
there imparted to him the affecting history with which he had just 
been made acquainted, without, however, mentioning the play-busi- 
ness of the night before. And the two gentlemen were laying 
their heads together, and consulting as to the best means of being 
useful to Mrs. Becky, while she was finishing her interrupted 
dejeimer a la foiirchette. 

How was it that she had come to that little town ? How was it 
that she had no friends and was wandering about alone ? Little 
boys at school are taught in their earliest Latin book, that the path 





1 


^^^^^^^Bfc^-^-ir ^:. ^^mmm-^^a^^M 




1 



I 



FULL OF BUSLNESS AND PLEASURE. 735 

of Avernus is very easy of descent. Let us skip over the interval 
in the history of her downward progress. She was not woRe now 
than she had been in the days of her prosperity — only a little 
down on her luck. 

As for Mrs. Amelia, she was a woman of such a soft and foolish 
disposition, that when she heard of anybody unhappy, her heart 
straightway melted toward the sufferer ; and as she had never 
thought or done anything mortally guilty herself, she had not that 
abhorrence for wickedness which distinguishes moralists much 
more knowing. If she spoiled everybody who came near her with 
kindness and compliments — if she begged pardon of all her serv- 
ants for troubling them to answer the bell — if she apologized to 
a shop-boy who showed her a piece of silk, or made a courtesy to 
a street-sweeper with a complimentary remark upon the elegant 
state of his crossing — and she was almost capable of ever^^ one of 
these follies — the notion that an old acquaintance was miserable 
was sure to soften her heart ; nor would she hear of anybody's 
being deservedly unhappy. A world under such legislation as hers 
would not be a very orderly place of abode ; but there are not 
many women, at least not of the rulers, who are of her soft. This 
lady, I believe, would have abolished all jails, punishmtiits, hand- 
cuffs, whippings, poverty, sickness, hunger in the world ; and was 
such a mean-spirited creature, that — we are obliged to confess it — 
she could even forget a mortal injury. 

When the major heard from Jos of the sentimental adventure 
which had just befallen the latter, he was not, it must be owned, 
nearly as much interested as the gentleman from Beiigal. On the 
contrary, his excitement was quite the reverse from a pleasurable 
one ; he made use of a brief but improper expression regarding a 
poor v/oman in distress, saying in fact — " the little minx, has she 
come to light again ? " He never had the slightest Jiking for her j 
but had heartily mistrusted her from the very first moment when 
her green eyes had looked at, and turned away from, his own. 

" That little devil brings mischief wherever she goes," the major 
said, disrespectfully. '' Who knows what sort of life she has been 
leading ? and what business has she here abroad and alone ? 
Don't tell me about persecutors and enemies ; an honest woman 
always has friends, and never is separated from her family. Why 
has she left her husband } He may have been disreputable and 
wicked, as you say. He always was. I remember the confounded 
blackleg, and the way in which he used to cheat and hoodwink 
poor George. Wasn't there a scandal about their separation t I 
think I heard something," cried out Major Dobbin, who did not 
care much about gossip ; and whom Jos tried in vain to convince 



y2>(> VANITY FAIR. 

that Mrs. Becky was in all respects a most injured and virtuous 
female. 

" Well, well ; let's ask Mrs. George," said that arch diplomatist 
of a major. " Only let us go and consult her. I suppose you will 
allow that she is a good judge at any rate, and knows what is right 
in such matters." 

" Hm ! Emmy is very well," said Jos, who did not happen to 
be in love with his sister. 

" Very well ? by Gad, sir, she's the finest lady I ever met in my 
life," bounced out the major. " I say at once let's go and ask if 
this woman ought to be visited or not — I will be content with her 
verdict." Now this odious, artful rogue of a major was thinking 
in his own mind that he was sure of his case. Emmy, he remem- 
bered, was at one time cruelly and deservedly jealous of Rebecca, 
never mentioned her name but with a shrinking and terror — a jeal- 
ous woman never forgives, thought Dobbin ; and so the pair went 
across the street to Mrs. George's house, where she was content- 
edly warbling at a music-lesson with Madame Strumpff. 

When that lady took her leave, Jos opened the business with his 
usual pomp of words. " Amelia, my dear," said he, " I have just 
had the most extraordinar}' — yes — God bless my soul ! the most 
extraordinary adventure — an old friend — yes, a most interesting 
old friend of yours, and I may say in old times, has just arrived 
here, and I should like you to see her." 

"Her!" said Amelia, "who is it? Major Dobbin, if you 
please not to break my scissors." The major was twirling 
them round by the little chain from which they sometimes hung to 
their lady's waist, and was thereby endangering his own eye. 

" It is a woman whom I dislike very much," said the major, dog- 
gedly ; " and whom you have no cause to love." 

" It is Rebecca, I'm sure it is Rebecca," Amelia said, blushing, 
and being very much agitated. 

" You are right ; you always are," Dobbin answered. Brussels, 
Waterloo, old, old times, griefs, pangs, remembrances, rushed back 
into Amelia's gentle heart, and caused a cruel agitation there. 

" Don't let me see her," Emmy continued. " I couldn't see 
her." 

" I told you so," Dobbin said to Jos. 

" She is very unhappy, and — and that sort of thing," Jos urged. 
" She is ver}^ poor and unprotected ; and has been ill — exceedingly 
ill — and that scoundrel of a husband has deserted her." 

" Ah ! " said Amelia. 

" She hasn't a friend in the world," Jos went on, not undexter- 
ously ; " and she said she thought she might trust in you. She's 
so rniserable, Emmy. She has been almost mad with grief. Her 



FULL OF BUSINESS AND PLEASURE, jj^ 

story quite affected me ; — 'pon my word and honor, it did — never 
was such cruel persecution borne so angeUcally, I may say. Her 
family has been most cruel to her." 

" Poor creature ! " Amelia said. 

" And if she can get no friend, she says she thinks she'll die," 
Jos proceeded, in a low tremulous voice. " God bless my soul ! do 
you know that she tried to kill herself ? She carries laudanum 
with her — I saw the bottle in her room — such a miserable little 
room — at a third-rate house, the Elephant, up in the roof at the 
top of all. I went there." 

This did not seem to affect Emmy. She even smiled a little. 
Perhaps she figured Jos to herself panting up the stair. 

" She's beside herself with grief," he resumed. " The agonies 
that woman has endured are quite frightful to hear of. She had a 
little boy, of the same age as Georgy." 

" Yes, yes, I think I remember," Emmy remarked. " Well ? " 

" The most beautiful child ever seen," Jos said, who was very 
fat, and easily moved, and had been touched by the story Becky 
told ; " a perfect angel, who adored his mother. The ruffians tore 
him shrieking out of her arms, and have never allowed him to see 
her." 

" Dear Joseph," Emmy cried out, starting up at once, " let us go 
and see her this minute," And she ran into her adjoining bed- 
chamber, tied on her bonnet in a flutter, came out with her shawl 
on her arm, and ordered Dobbin to follow. 

He went and put her shawl — it was a white cashmere, consigned 
to her by the major himself from India — over her shoulders. He 
saw there was nothing for it but to obey ; and she put her hand 
into his arm, and they went away. 

It is number 92, up four pair of stairs," Jos said, perhaps not 
very willing to ascend the steps again ; but he placed himself in 
the window of his drawing-room, which commands the place on 
which the Elephant stands, and saw the pair marching through the 
market. 

It was as well that Becky saw them too from her garret ; for she 
and the two students were chattering and laughing there ; they 
had been joking about the appearance of Becky's grandpapa — 
whose arrival and departure they had witnessed — but she. had time 
to dismiss them, and have her little room clear before the landlord 
of the Elephant, who knew that Mrs. Osborne was a great favorite 
at the serene court, and respected her accordingly, led the way up 
the stairs to the roof-story, encouraging miladi and the herr major 
as they achieved the ascent. 

" Gracious lady, gracious lady ! " said the landlord, knocking at 



738 



VANITY FAIR. 



Becky's door ; he had called her madame the day before, and was 
by no means courteous to her, 

" Who is it ? " Becky said, putting out her head, and she gave a 
little scream. There stood Emmy in a tremble, and Dobbin, the 
tall major, with his cane. 

He stood still watching, and very much interested at the scene ; 
but Emmy sprang forward with open arms toward Rebecca, and 
forgave her at that moment, and embraced her and kissed her 
with all her heart. Ah, poor wretch, when was your lip pressed 
before by such pure kisses ? 



AMANTIUM IRy^. 



739 



CHAPTER LXVI. 



AMANTIUM IR^. 



RANKNESS and kindness like 
Amelia's were likely to touch 
even such a hardened little 
reprobate as Becky. She re- 
turned Emmy's caresses and 
kind speeches with something 
very like gratitude, and an 
emotion which, if it was not 
lasting, for a moment was al- 
most genuine. That was a 
lucky stroke of hers about the 
child "torn from her arms 
shrieking." It was by that 
harrowing misfortune that 
Becky had won her friend 
back, and it was one of the 
very first points, we may be 
certain, upon which our poor 
simple little Emmy began to 
talk to her new-found ac- 
quaintance. 

" And so they took your 
darling child from you ? " our 
simpleton cried out. " Oh, 
Rebecca, my poor dear suf- 
fering friend, I know what it is to lose a boy, and to feel for those 
who have lost one. But please heaven yours will be restored to 
you, as a merciful, merciful Providence has brought me back 
mine." 

" The child, my child ? Oh, yes, my agonies were frightful," 
Becky owned, not perhaps without a twinge of conscience. It 
jarred upon her, to be obliged to commence instantly to tell lies in 
reply to so much confidence and simplicity. But that is the mis- 
fortune of beginning with this kind of forgery. When one fib be- 
comes due, as it were, you must forge another to take up the old 




740 VANITY FAIR. 

acceptance ; and so the stock of your lies in circulation inevitably 
multiplies, and the danger of detection increases every day. 

" My agonies," Becky continued, " were terrible (I hope she won't 
sit down on the bottle) when they took him away from me ; I 
thought I should die : but I fortunately had a brain fever, during 
which my doctor gave me up, and — and I recovered, and — and 
here I am, poor and friendless." 

" How old is he ? " Emmy asked. 

" Eleven," said Becky. 

" Eleven ! " cried the other. " Why, he was born the same year 
with Georgy, who is — " 

" I know, I know," Becky cried out, who had in fact quite for- 
gotten all about little Rawdon's age. " Grief has made me forget 
so many things, dearest Amelia. I am very much changed ; half 
wild sometimes. He was eleven when they took him away from 
me. Bless his sweet face ; I have never seen it again." 

" Was he fair or dark ?" went on that absurd little Emmy. " Show 
me his hair." 

Becky almost laughed at her simplicity. " Not to-day, love — 
some other time, when my trunks arrive from Leipsic, whence I 
came to this place — and a little drawing of him, which I made in 
happy days." 

" Poor Becky, poor Becky ! " said Emmy. " How thankful, how 
thankful I ought to be ; " (though I doubt whether that practice of 
piety inculcated upon us by our womankind in early youth, namely, 
to be thankful because we are better off than somebody else, be a 
very rational religious exercise), and then she began to think, as 
usual, how her son was the handsomest, the best, and the cleverest 
boy in the whole world. 

" You will see my Georg}-," was the best thing Emmy could 
think of to console Becky, If anything could make her comfort- 
able that would. 

And so the two women continued talking for an hour or more, 
during which Becky had the opportunity of giving her new friend 
a full and complete version of her private histor}\ She showed 
how her marriage with Rawdon Crawley had always been viewed 
by the family with feelings of the utmost hostility ; how her sister- 
in-law (an artful woman) had poisoned her husband's mind against 
her; how he had formed odious connections, which had estranged 
his affections from her ; how she had borne ever\'thing — poverty, 
neglect, coldness from the being whom she most loved — and all 
for the sake of her child ; how, finally, and by the most flagrant 
outrage, she had been driven into demanding a separation from 
her husband, when the wretch did not scruple to ask that she 
should sacrifice her own fair fame so that he might procure ad- 



AMANTIUM IRy^. 741 

vancement through the means of a very great and powerful but un- 
principled man — the Marquis of Steyne, indeed. The atrocious 
monster ! 

This part of her eventful history Becky gave with the utmost 
feminine delicacy, and the most indignant virtue. Forced to fly 
her husband's roof by this insult, the coward had pursued his re- 
venge by taking her child from her. And thus Becky said she was 
a wanderer, poor, unprotected, friendless, and wretched. 

Emmy received this story, which was told at some length, as 
those persons who are acquainted with her character may imagine 
that she would. She quivered with indignation at the account of 
the conduct of the miserable Rawdon and the unprincipled Steyne. 
Her eyes made notes of admiration for every one of the sentences 
in which Becky described the persecutions of her aristocratic rela- 
tives, and the falling away of her husband. (Becky did not abuse 
him. She spoke rather in sorrow than in anger. She had loved him 
only too fondly ; and was he not the father of her boy ?) And as for 
the separation scene from the child, while Becky was reciting it, 
Emmy retired altogether behind her pocket-handkerchief, so that 
the consummate little tragedian must have been charmed to see 
the effect which her performance produced on her audience. 

While the ladies were carrying on their conversation, Amelia's 
constant escort, the major (who, of course, did not wish to interrupt 
their conference, and found himself rather tired of creaking about 
the narrow stair passage of which the roof brushed the nap from 
his hat), descended to the ground-floor of the house and into the 
great room common to all the frequenters of the Elephant, out of 
which the stair led. This apartment is always in a fume of smoke, 
and liberally sprinkled with beer. On a dirty table stand scores 
of corresponding brass-candlesticks with tallow candles for the 
lodgers, whose keys hang up in rows over the candles. Emmy had 
passed blushing through the room anon, where all sorts of people 
were collected ; Tyrclese glove-sellers and Danubian linen- 
merchants, with their packs ; students recruiting themselves with 
butterbrods and meat ; idlers, playing cards or dominoes on the 
sloppy, beery tables ; tumblers refreshing during the cessation of 
their performances ; — in a word, all the fumum and strepitus of a 
German inn in fair time. The waiter brought the major a mug of 
beer, as a matter of course ; and he took out a cigar, and amused 
himself with that pernicious vegetable and a newspaper until his 
charge should come down to claim him. 

Max and Fritz came presently down stairs, their caps on one side, 
their spurs jingling, their pipes splendid with coats-of-arms, and 
full-blown tassels, and they hung up the key of No. 90 on the board, 
anc called for the ration of butterbrod and beer. The pair sat 



742 VANITY FAIR. 

down by the major, and fell into a conversation of which he could 
not help hearing somewhat. It was mainly about " Fuchs " and 
'' Philister," and duels and drinking-bouts at the neighboring Uni- 
versity of Schoppenhausen, from which renowned seat of learning 
they had just come in the Eilwagen, with Becky, as it appeared, by 
their side, and in order to be present at the bridal fetes at Pum- 
pernickel, 

" The little Englanderinn seems to be e?t bays de go?i7ioissance,'' 
said Max, who knew the French language, to Fritz, his comrade. 
" After the fat grandfather went away, there came a pretty little 
compatriot. I heard them chattering and whimpering together in 
the little woman's chamber." 

" We must take the tickets for her concert," Fritz said. " Hast 
thou any money, Max ? " 

" Bah," said the other, " the concert is a concert in nubibus. 
Hans said that she advertised one at Leipsic ; and the Burschen 
took many tickets. But she went off without singing. She said in 
the coach yesterday that her pianist had fallen ill at Dresden. She 
can not sing, it is my belief ; her voice is as cracked as thine, Oh 
thou beer-soaking renowner ! " 

" It is cracked ; /hear her trying out of her window a schrecklich 
English ballad, called ' De Rose upon de Balgony.' " 

" Saufen and singen go not together," observed Fritz with the red 
nose, who evidently preferred the former amusement. " No, thou 
shalt take none of her tickets. She won money at the tretite-et- 
qimrante last night. I saw her; she made a little English boy 
play for her. We will spend thy money there or at the theater, or 
we will treat her to French wine or cognac in the Aurelius Garden^ 
but the tickets we will not buy. What sayest thou 1 Yet, another 
mug of beer ? " and one and another successively having buried 
their blonde whiskers in the mawkish draught, curled them and 
swaggered off into the fair. 

The major, who had seen the key of No. 90 put up on its hook, 
and had heard the conversation of the two young university bloods, 
was not at a loss to understand that their talk related to Becky. 
" The little devil is at her old tricks," he thought, and he smiled as 
he recalled old days, when he had witnessed the desperate flirtation 
with Jos, and the ludicrous end of that adventure. He and George 
had often laughed over it subsequently, and until a few weeks after 
George's marriage, when he also was caught in the little Circe's 
toils, and had an understanding with her which his comrade cer- 
tainly suspected, but preferred to ignore. William was too much 
hurt or ashamed to ask to fathom that disgraceful mystery, although 
once, and evidently with remorse on his mind, George had alluded 
to it. It was on the morning of Waterloo, as the young men stood 



AMANTIUM IRy^. 743 

together in front of their line, surveying the black masses of 
Frenchmen who crowned the opposite heights, and as the rain was 
coming down, " I have been mixing in a foolish intrigue with a 
woman," George said. " I am glad we were marched away. If 
I drop, I hope Emmy will never know of that business. I wish to 
God it had never been begun ! " And William was pleased to think, 
and had more than once soothed poor George's widow with the 
narrative, that Osborne, after quitting his wife, and after the action 
of Quatre Bras, on the first day, spoke gravely and affectionately to 
his comrade of his father and his wife. On these facts, too, William 
had insisted very strongly in his conversations with the elder 
Osborne ; and had thus been the means of reconciling the old 
gentleman to his son's memory, just at the close of the elder man's 
life. 

" And so this devil is still going on with her intrigues," thought 
William, " I wish she were a hundred miles from here. She 
brings mischief wherever she goes." And he was pursuing these 
forebodings and this uncomfortable train of thought, with his head 
between his hands, and the Pumpernickel Gazette of last week 
unread under his nose, when somebody tapped his shoulder with a 
parasol, and he looked up and saw Mrs. Amelia. 

This woman had a way of tyrannizing over Major Dobbin (for 
the weakest of all people will domineer over somebody), and she 
ordered him about and patted him, and made him fetch and carry 
just as if he was a great Newfoundland dog. He liked, so to speak, 
to jump into the water if she said " High, Dobbin ! " and to trot 
behind her with her reticule in his mouth. This history has been 
written to very little purpose if the reader has not perceived that 
the major was a spooney. 

" Why did you not wait for me, sir, to escort me down stairs ? " 
she said, giving a little toss of her head, and a most sarcastic 
courtesy. 

" I couldn't stand up in the passage," he answered, with a 
comical deprecatory look ; and, delighted to give her his arm, and 
to take her out of the horrid smoky place, he would have walked 
off without even so much as remembering the waiter, had not the 
young fellow run after him and stopped him on the threshold of the 
Elephant, to make him pay for the beer which he had not consumed. 
Emmy laughed ; she called him a naughty man, who wanted to run 
away in debt ; and, in fact, made some jokes suitable to the occasion 
and the small beer. She was in high spirits and good humor, and 
tripped across the market-place very briskly. She wanted to see 
Jos that instant. The major laughed at the impetuous affection 
Mrs. Amelia exhibited ; for, in truth, it was not very often that she 
wanted her brother " that instant." 



744 VANITY FAIR. 

They found the civilian in his saloon on the first floor ; he had 
been pacing the room, and biting his nails, and looking over the 
market-place toward the Elephant a hundred times at least during 
the past hour, while Emmy was closeted with her friend in the 
garret, and the major was beating the tattoo on the sloppy tables of 
the public room below, and he was, on his side too, very anxious to 
see Mrs. Osborne. 

" Well ? " said he. 

" The poor dear creature, how she has suffered ! " Emmy said. 

" God bless my soul, yes," Jos said, wagging his head, so that 
his cheeks quivered like jellies. 

" She may have Payne's room ; who can go up stairs," Emmy 
continued. Payne was a staid English maid and personal attendant 
upon Mrs. Osborne, to whom the courier, as in duty bound, paid 
court, and whom Georgy used to "lark" dreadfully with accounts 
of German robbers and ghosts. She passed her time chiefly in 
grumbling, in ordering about her mistress, and in stating her inten- 
tion to return the next morning to her native village of Clapham. 
" She may have Payne's room," Emmy said. 

" Why you don!t mean to say you are going to have that woman 
into the house V bounced out the major, jumping up. 

" Of course we are," said Amelia, in the most innocent way in 
the world. " Don't be angr}^, and break the furniture. Major 
Dobbin. Of course we are going to have her here." 

" Of course, m)^ dear," Jos said. 

" The poor creature, after all her sufferings," Emmy continued ; 
" her horrid banker broken and run away ; her husband — wicked 
wTCtch— having deserted her and taken her child away from her " 
(here she doubled her two little fists and held them in a most 
menacing attitude before her, so that the major was charmed to see 
such a dauntless virago), " the poor dear thing ! quite alone and 
absolutely forced to give lessons in singing to get her bread — and 
not have her here ! " 

" Take lessons, my dear Mrs. George," cried the major, " but 
don't have her in the house. I implore you don't." 

" Pooh," said Jos. 

" You who are always good and kind ; always used to be at any 
rate ; I'm astonished at you. Major William," Amelia cried. 
" Why, what is the moment to help her but when she is so mis- 
erable 1 Now is the time to be of servdce to her. The oldest friend 
I ever had, and not — " 

" She was not always your friend, Amelia," the major said, for 
he was quite angry. This allusion was too much for Emmy, who, 
looking the major almost fiercely in the face, said, " For shame, 
Major Dobbin ! " and after having fired this shot, she walked out 



AM A NTIUM IR^. 74 5 

of the room with a most majestic air, and shut tier own door briskly 
on herself and her outraged dignit}-. 

" To allude to that f' she said, when the door was closed. " Oh, 
it was cruel of him to remind me of it," and she looked up at 
George's picture, which hung there as usual, with the portrait of 
the boy underneath. " It w^as cruel of him. If I had forgiven it, 
ought he to have spoken ? No. And it is irom his owm lips that 
I know how wicked and groundless my jealous3"was ; and that you 
were pure — Oh, yes, you were pure, my saint in heaven ! " 

She paced the room trembling and indignant. She went and 
leaned on the chest of drawers over whicn the picture hung, and 
gazed and gazed at it. Its eyes seemed to look down on her with 
a reproach that deepened as she looked. The early dear, dear 
memories of that brief prime of love rushed back upon her. The 
wound which years had scarcely cicatrized bled afresh, and oh, how 
bitterly ! She could not bear the reproaches of the husband, there 
before her. It couldn't be. Never, never. 

Poor Dobbin ; poor old William ! Thai unlucky word had undone 
the work of many a year — the long laborious edifice of a life of love 
and constancy — raised too upon what secret and hidden foundations, 
wherein lay buried passions, uncounted struggles, unknown sacrifices 
— a little word was spoken, and down fell the fair palace of hope — 
one word, and away flew the bird which he had been trying all his 
life to lure ! 

William, though he saw^ by Amelia's looks that a great crisis had 
come, nevertheless continued to implore Sedley, in the most 
energetic terms, to beware of Rebecca ; and he eagerly, almost 
frantically, adjured Jos not to receive her. He besought Mr. Sedley 
to inquire at least regarding her ; told him how he had heard that 
she was in the company of gamblers and people of ill repute ; 
pointed out what evil she had done in former days ; how she and 
Crawley had misled poor George into ruin ; how she was now 
parted from her husband, by her own confession, and, perhaps, foi 
good reason. What a dangerous companion she would be for his 
sister, who knew nothing of the affairs of the world ! William 
implored Jos, with all the eloquence which he could bring to bear, 
and a great deal more energy than this quiet gentleman was ordi- 
narily in the habit of sliowing, to keep Rebecca out of his houselwld. 

Had he been less violent, or more dexterous, he might have 
succeeded in his suppUcations to Jos ; but the civilian was not a 
little jealous of the airs of superiority w^hich the major constantly 
exhibited toward him, as he fancied (indeed, he had imparted his 
opinions to Mr. Kirsch, the courier, whose bills Major Dobbin 
checked on this journey, and who sided with his master), and he 
began a blustering speech about his competency to defend his own 



746 VANITY FAIR. 

honor, his desire not to have his affairs meddled with, his intention, 
in fine, to rebel against the major, when the colloquy — rather a 
long and stormy one — was put an end to in the simplest way possi- 
ble, namely, by the arrival of Mrs. Becky, with a porter from the 
Elephant Hotel, in charge of her very meager baggage. 

She greeted her host with affectionate respect, and made a 
shrinking, but amicable, salutation to Major Dobbin, who, as her 
instinct assured her at once, was her enemy, and had been speak- 
ing against her ; and the blustle and clatter consequent upon her 
arrival brought Amelia out of her room. Emmy went up and 
embraced her guest with the greatest warmth, and took no notice 
of the major, except to fling him an angry look — the most unjust 
and scornful glance that had perhaps ever appeared in that poor 
little woman's face since she was born. But she had private 
reasons of her own, and was bent upon being angry with him. 
And Dobbin, indignant at the injustice, not at the defeat, went off, 
making her a bow quite as haughty as the killing courtesy with 
which the little woman chose to bid him farewell. 

He being gone, Emmy was particularly lively and affectionate to 
Rebecca, and bustled about the apartments and installed her guest 
in her room with an eagerness and activity seldom exhibited by 
our placid little friend. But when an act of injustice is to be done, 
especially by weak people, it is best that it should be done quickly ; 
and Emmy thought she was displaying a great deal of firmness 
and proper feeling and veneration for the late Captain Osborne in 
her present behavior. 

Georgy came in from the fetes for dinner-time, and found four 
covers laid as usual ; but one of the places was occupied by a Jady, 
instead of by Major Dobbin. " Hallo ! where's Dob ? " the 
young gentleman asked, with his usual simplicity of language. 
"Major Dobbin is dining out, I suppose," his mother said; and 
drawing the boy to her, kissed him a great deal, and put his hair off 
his forehead, and introduced him to Mrs. Crawley. " This is my 
boy, Rebecca," Mrs. Osborne said — as much as to say — can the 
world produce anything like that? Becky looked at him with 
rapture, and pressed his hand fondly. " Dear boy ! " she said — 
" he is just like my — " Emotion choked her further utterance ; 
but Amelia understood, as well as if she had spoken, that Becky 
was thinking of her own blessed child. However, the company of 
her friend consoled Mrs. Crawley, and she ate a ver}' good dinner. 

During the repast she had occasion to speak several times, when 
Georgy eyed her and listened to her. At the dessert Emmy was 
gone out to superintend further domestic arrangements ; Jos was 
in his great chair dozing over Galignani ; Georgy and the new 
arrival sat close to each other; he had continued to look at her 



AMANTIUM IR^. 747 

knowingly more than once, and at last he laid down the nut« 
crackers. 

" I say," said Georgy. 

" What do you say ? " Becky said, laughing. 

" You're the lady I saw in the mask at the Rouge et Noir." 

" Hush ! you little sly creature," Becky said, taking up his hand 
and kissing it. " Your uncle was there, too, and mamma mustn't 
know it." 

" Oh no — not by no means," answered the little fellow. 

" You see, we are quite good friends already," Becky said to 
Emmy, who now re-entered, and it must be owned, that Mrs. 
Osborne had introduced a most judicious and amiable companion 
into her house. 

William, in a state of great indignation, though still unaware of 
all the treason that was in store for him, walked across the town 
wildly until he fell upon the secretary of legation. Tapeworm, who 
invited him to dinner. As they were discussing that meal, he 
took occasion to ask the secretary whether he knew anything 
about a certain Mrs. Rawdon Crawley, who had, he believed, 
made some noise in London ; and then Tapeworm, who of course 
knew all the London gossip, and was besides a relative of Lady 
Gaunt, poured out into the astonished major's ears such a history 
about Becky and her husband as astonished the querist, and sup- 
plied all the points of this narrative, for it was at that ver}^ table 
years ago that the present writer had the pleasure of hearing the 
tale. Tufto, Steyne, the Crawleys, and their history — everything 
connected with Becky and her previous life, passed under the 
record of the bitter diplomatist. He knew everything and a great 
deal besides, about all the world ; — in a word, he made the most 
astounding revelations to the simple-hearted major. When Dobbin 
said that Mrs. Osborne and Mr. Sedley had taken her into their 
house. Tapeworm burst into a peal of laughter which shocked the 
major, and asked if they had not better send into the prison, and 
take in one or two of the gentlemen in shaved heads, and yellow 
jackets, who swept the streets of Pumpernickel, chained in pairs, 
to board and lodge, and act as tutor to that little scapegrace 
Georgy. 

This information astonished and horrified the major not a little. 
It had been agreed in the morning (before meeting with Rebecca) 
that Amelia should go to the court ball that night. There would 
be the place where he should tell her. The major went home 
and dressed himself in his uniform, and repaired to court, in hopes 
to see Mrs. Osborne. She never came. When he returned to his 
lodgings all the lights in the Sedley tenement were put out. He 



748 VANITY -PAIR. 

could not see her till the morning. I don't know what sort of a 
night's rest he had with this frightful secret in bed with him. 

At 'the earliest convenient hour in the morning he sent his 
servant across the way with a note, saying, that he wished very 
particularly to speak with he. A message came back to say that 
Mrs. Osborne was exceedingly unwell, and was keeping her room. 

She, too, had been awake all that night. She had been think- 
ing of a thing which had agitated her mind a hundred times before. 
A hundred times on tiie point of yielding, she had shrunk back 
from a sacrifice which she felt was too much for her. She couldn't, 
in spite of his love and constancy, and her own acknowledged 
regard, respect, and gratitude. What are benefits ? what are con- 
stancy or merit ? One curl of a girl's ringlet, one hair of a whisker, 
will turn the scale against them all in a minute. They did not 
weigh with Emmy more than with other women. She had tried 
them ; wanted to make them pass ; could not ; and the pitiless 
little woman had found a pretext, and determined to be free. 

When at length, in the afternoon, the major gained admission to 
Amelia, ins<"ead of the cordial and affectionate greeting, to which 
he had been accustomed now for many a long day, he received the 
salutation of a courtesy, and of a little gloved hand, retracted the 
moment after it was accorded to him. 

Rebecca, too, was in the room, and advanced to meet him with 
a smile and an extended hand. Dobbin drew back rather confus- 
edly. " I — I beg your pardon, ma'am," he said; "I am bound to 
tell you that it is not as your friend that I am come here now." 

" Pooh ! damn ; don't let us have this sort of thing ! " Jos cried 
out, alarmed, and anxious to get rid of a scene. 

" I wonder what Major Dobbin has to say against Rebecca ? " 
Amelia said, in a low, clear voice with a slight quaver in it, and a 
very determined look about the eyes. 

" I will not have this sort of thing in my house," Jos interposed. 
"I say, I will not have it; and Dobbin, I beg, sir, you'll stop it." 
And he looked round trembling and turning very red, and gave a 
great puff, and made for his door. 

" Dear friend ! " Rebecca said, with angelic sweetness, " do hear 
what Major Dobbin has to bay against me." 

" I will 7iot hear it, I say," squeaked out Jos at the top of his 
voice, and, gathering up his dressing-gown, he was gone. 

" We are only two women," Amelia said. " You can speak, 
now, sir." 

" This manner toward me is one which scarce becomes you, 
Amelia," the major answered haughtily ; " nor I believe am I guilty 
of habitual harshness to women. It is not a pleasure to me to do 
the dutv which I am come to do." 




Photo by Byron 



AMANTIUM IR^. 749 

"Pray, proceed with it quickly, if you please, Major Dobbin," 
said Amelia, who was more and more in a pet. The expression of 
Dobbin's face, as she spoke in this imperious manner, was not 
pleasant. 

" I came to say — and as you stay, Mrs. Crawley, I must say it 
in your presence — that I think you — you ought not to form a 
member of the family of my friends. A lady who is separated 
from her husband, who travels not under her own name, who fre- 
quents public gaming-tables — " 

" It was to the ball I went," cried out Becky. 

" — is not a fit companion for Mrs. Osborne and her son," Dob- 
bin went on ; " and I may add that there are people here who 
know you, and who profess to know that regarding your conduct, 
about which I don't even wish to speak before — before Mrs. 
Osborne." 

" Yours is a very modest and convenient sort of calumny, Major 
Dobbin," Rebecca said. " You leave me under the weight of an 
accusation which, after all, is unsaid. What is it ? Is it unfaith- 
fulness to my husband ? I scorn it, and defy anybody to prove it 
— ^^I defy you, I say. My honor is as untouched as that of the bitter- 
est enemy who ever maligned me. Is it of being poor, forsaken, 
wretched, that you accuse me ? Yes, I am guilty of those faults, 
and punished for them every day. Let me go, Emmy. It is only 
to suppose that I have not met you, and I am no worse to-day than 
I was yesterday. It is only to suppose that the night is over, and 
the poor wanderer is on her way. Don't you remember the song 
we used to sing in old, dear old days ? I have been wandering 
ever since then — a poor castaway, scorned for being miserable, 
and insulted because I am alone. Let me go ; my stay here inter- 
feres with the plans of this gentleman." 

"Indeed, it does, madam," said the major. "If I have any au- 
thority in this house — " 

" Authority, none ! " broke out Amelia. " Rebecca, you stay 
with me. /won't desert you because you have been persecuted, or 
insult you because — because Major Dobbin chooses to do so. 
Come away, dear." And the two women made toward the door. 

William opened it. As they were going out, however, he took 
Amelia's hand, and said : " Will you stay a moment and speak to 
me ? " 

" He wishes to speak to you away from me," said Becky, looking 
like a martyr. Amelia griped her hand in reply. 

" Upon my honor it is not about you that I am going to speak," 
Dobbin said. " Come back, Amelia," and she came. Dobbin 
bowed to Mrs. Crawley, as he shut the door upon her. Amelia 



750 VANITY FAIR. 

looked at him leaning against the glass ; her face and her lips were 
quite white. 

" I was confused when I spoke just now," the major said, after a 
pause ; " and I misused the word authority." 

" You did," said Amelia, with her teeth chattering. 

" At least I have claims to be heard," Dobbin continued. 

" It is generous to remind me of our obligations to you," the 
woman answered. 

"The claims I mean, are those left me by George's father," 
William said. 

"Yes, and you insulted his memory. You did yesterday. You 
know you did. And I will never forgive you. Never ! " said 
Amelia. She shot out each little sentence in a tremor of emotion. 

"You don't mean that, Amelia.'* " William said, sadly. "You 
don't mean that these words, uttered in a hurried moment, are to 
weigh against a whole life's devotion ? I think that George's 
memory has not been injured by the way in which I have dealt with 
it, and if we are come to bandying reproaches, I at least merit none 
from his widow and the mother of his son. Reflect, afterward when 
— when you are at leisure, and your conscience will withdraw this 
accusation. It does even now." Amelia held down her head. 

"It is not that speech of yesterday," he continued, "which 
moves you. That is but the jDretext, Amelia, or I have loved you 
and watched you for fifteen years in vain. Have I not learned in 
that time to read all your feelings, and look into your thoughts 1 
I know what your heart is capable of ; it can cling faithfully to a 
recollection, and cherish a fancy ; but -it can't feel such an attach- 
ment as mine deserves to mate with, and such as I would have won 
from a woman more generous than you. No, you are not worthy 
of the love which I have devoted to you. I knew all along that the 
prize I had set my life on was not worth the winning; that I was a 
fool, with fond fancies, too, bartering away my all of truth and ardor 
against your little feeble remnant of love. I will bargain no more ; 
I withdraw. I find no fault with you. You are very good-natured, 
and have done your best ; but you couldn't — you couldn't reach up 
to the height of the attachment which I bore you, and which a 
loftier soul than yours might have been proud to share. Good-by, 
Amelia ! I have, watched your struggle. Let it end. We are 
both weary of it." 

Amelia stood scared and silent as William thus suddenly broke 
the chain by which she held him, and declared his independence 
and superiority. He had placed himself at her feet so long that 
the poor little woman had been accustomed to trample upon him. 
She didn't wish to marry him, but she wished to keep him. She 



AMANTIUM IR^. 7 5 1 

wished to give him nothing, but that he should give all. It is a 
bargain not unfrequently levied in love. 

William's sally had quite broken and cast her down. Her 
assault was long since over and beaten back. 

" Am I to understand, then — that you are going — away — Wil- 
liam ?" she said. 

He gave a sad laugh. " I went once before," he said, " and 
came back after twelve years. We were young then, Amelia. 
Good-by. I have spent enough of my life at this play." 

While they had been talking, the door into Mrs. Osborne's room 
had opened ever so little ; indeed Becky had kept a hold of the 
handle, and had turned it on the instant when Dobbin quitted it ; 
and she heard every word of the conversation that had passed be- 
tween these two. " What a noble heart that man has," she thought, 
" and how shamefully that woman plays with it ! " She admired 
Dobbin ; she bore him no rancor for the part he had taken against 
her. It was an open move in the game, and played fairly. " Ah ! " 
she thought, "if I could have had such a husband as that — a man 
with a heart and brains too ! I would not have minded his large 
feet ; " and running into her room, she absolutely bethought herself 
of something, and wrote him a note, beseeching him to stop for 
a few days — not to think of going — and that she could serve him 
with A. 

The parting was over. Once more poor William walked to the 
door and was gone ; and the little widow, the author of all this 
work, had her will, and had won her victory, and was left to enjoy 
it as she best might. Let the ladies envy her triumph. 

At the romantic hour of dinner, Mr. Georgy made his appearance, 
and again remarked the absence of " Old Dob." The meal was 
eaten in silence by t^e party. Jos's appetite not being diminished, 
but Emmy taking nothing at all. 

After the meal, Georgy was lolling in the cushions of the old 
window, a large window, with three sides of glass abutting from 
the gable, and commanding on one side the Market Place, where 
the Elephant is, his mother being busy hard by, when he remarked 
symptoms of movement at the major's house on the other side of 
the street. 

" Hullo ! " said he, " there's Dob's trap — they are bringing it 
out of the courtyard." The " trap " in question was a carriage 
which the major had bought for six pounds sterHng, and about 
which they used to rally him a good deal. 

Emmy gave a little start, but said nothing. 
, " Hullo ! " Georgy continued, " there's Francis coming out with the 
portmanteaus, and Kunz, the one-eyed postilion, coming down the 
market with three schimmels. Look at his boots and yellow jacket" 



752 VAXITY FAIR. 

— ain't he a rum one ? Why — they're putting the horses to Dob's 
carriage. Is he going anywhere ?" 

" Yes," said Emmy, " he is going on a journey." 

" Going on a journey ! and when is he coming back ? " 

" He is — not coming back," answered Emmy. 

" Not coming back," cried out Georgy, jumping up. " Stay here, 
sir," roared out Jos. " Stay, Georg}^," said his mother, with a very 
sad face. The boy stopped ; kicked about the room ; jumped up 
and down from the window-seat with his knees, and showed every 
symptom of uneasiness and curiosity. 

The horses were put to. The baggage was strapped on. Fran- 
cis came out with his master's sword, cane, and umbrella tied up 
together, and laid them in the well, and his desk and old tin cocked- 
hat case, which he placed under the seat. Francis brought out the 
stained old blue cloak lined with red camlet, which had wrapped 
the owner up any time these fifteen years, and had ijiaiiche7i Sturm 
erlebt, as a favorite song of those days said. It had been new for 
the campaign of Waterloo, and had covered George and William 
after the night of Quatre Bras. 

Old Burcke, the landlord of the lodgings, came out, then Fran- 
cis with more packages — final packages — then Major William; 
Burcke wanted to kiss him. The major was adored by all peo- 
ple with whom he had to do. It was with difficulty he could es- 
cape from this demonstration of attachment. 

" By Jove, I will go ! " screamed out George. " Give him this," 
said Becky, quite interested, and put a paper into the boy's hand. 
He had rushed down the stairs, and flung across the street in a 
minute — the yellow postilion was cracking his whip gently. 

William had got into the carriage, released from the embraces of 
his landlord. George bounded in afterward and flung his arms 
round the major's neck (as they saw from the window), and began 
asking him multiplied questions. Then he felt in his waistcoat- 
pocket and gave him a note. William seized at it rather eagerly, he 
opened it tremblingly, but instantly his countenance changed, and 
he tore the paper in two, and dropped it out of the carriage. He 
kissed Georgy on the head, and the boy got out, doubling his fists 
into his eyes, with the aid of Francis. He lingered with his. 
hand on the panel. Fort Schw^ager ! The yellow postilion cracked 
his whip prodigiously, up sprung Francis to the box, away went the 
schimmels, and Dobbin with his head on his breast. He never 
looked up as they passed under Amelia's window ; and Georg}', 
left alone in the street, burst out crying in the face of all the 
crowd. 

Emmy's maid heard him how^ling again during the night, and 
brought him some preserved apricots to console him. She mingled 



AMANTIUM IRM. 753 

her lamentations with his. All the poor, all the humble, all honest 
folks, all good men who knew him, loved that kind-hearted and 
simple gentleman. 

As for Emmy, had she not done her dut}' 1 She had her picture 
of George for a consolation. 

48 



VANITY FAIR. 



CHAPTER LXVil. 



WHICH CONTAINS BIRTHS, MARRIAGES, AND DEATHS. 

HATEVER Becky's privato 
plan might be by which Dob- 
bin's true love was to be 
crowned with success, the lit- 
tle woman thought that the 
secret might keep, and in- 
deed being by no means so 
much interested about any- 
body's welfare as about her 
own, she had a great number 
of things pertaining to her- 
self to consider, and which 
concerned her a great deal 
more than Major Dobbin's 
happiness in this life. 

She found herself suddenly 
and unexpectedly in snug, 
comfortable quarters ; sur- 
rounded by friends, kindness, 
and good-natured simple peo- 
ple such as she had not met 
with for many a long day; 
and, wanderer as she was by 
force and inclination, there were moments when rest was pleasant 
to her. As the most hardened Arab that ever careered across the 
desert over the hump of a dromedary, likes to repose sometimes 
under the date-trees bv the water ; or to come into the cities, walk 
into the bazaars, refresh himself in the baths, and say his prayers 
in the mosques, before he goes out again marauding ; Jos's tents and 
pilau were pleasant to this little Ishmaelite. She picketed her 
steed, hun^ up her weapons, and warmed herself comfortably by 
his fire. The halt in that roving, restless life, was inexpressibly 
soothing and pleasant to her. 

So, pleased herself/ she tried with all her might to please every- 
bodv; and we know that she was eminent and successful as a 
practitioner in the art of giving pleasured As for Jos, even in that 
little interview in the garret at the Elephant Inn, she had found 




BIRTHS, MARRIAGES, AND DEATHS. 755 

means to win back a great deal of his good-will. ' In the course of 
a week the civilian was her sworn slave and frantic admirer. He 
didn't go to sleep after dinner, as his custom was in the much less 
lively society of Amelia. J He drove out with Becky in his open 
carriage. He asked little parties, and invented festivities to do 
her honor. 

Tapeworm, the charge' d'affaires who had abused her so cruelly, 
came to dine with Jos, and then came every day to pay his respects 
to Becky. Poor Emmy, who was never very talkative, and more 
glum and silent than ever after Dobbin's departure, was quite for- 
gotten when this superior genius made her appearance. ^ The 
French minister was as much charmed with her as his English 
rival. ^ The German ladies, never particularly squeamish as regards 
morals, especially in English people, were delighted with the clev- 
erness and wit of Mrs. Osborne's charming friend / and though 
she did not ask to go to court, yet the most august and transparent 
personages there heard of her fascinations, and were quite curioua 
to know her. \ When it became known that she was noble, of an 
ancient English family — that her husband was a colonel of the 
guard, excellenz, and governor of an island, only separated from 
his lady by one of those trifling differences which are of little ac- 
count in a country where " Werther " is still read, and the " Wahl- 
verwandschaften " of Goethe is considered an edif3dng moral book 
•i— nobody thought of refusing to receive her in the very highest so- 
ciety of the little duchy, and the ladies were even more ready to 
call her du, and to swear eternal friendship for her, than they had 
been to bestow the same inestimable benefits upon Amelia. Love 
and liberty are interpreted by those simple Germans in away which 
honest folks in Yorkshire and Somersetshire little understand, and 
a lady might, in some philosophic and civilized towns, be divorced 
ever so many times from her respective husbands, and keep hei 
character in society. Jos's house never was so pleasant, since he 
had a house of his own, as Rebecca caused it to be. She sang, 
she played, she laughed, she talked in two or three languages ; she 
brought everybody to the house ; and she made Jos believe that it 
was his own great social talents and wit which gathered the society 
of the place round about him. 

As for Emmy, who found herself not in the least mistress of her 
own house, except when the bills were to be paid, Becky soon dis- 
covered the way to soothe and please her. She talked to her per- 
petually about Major Dobbin sent about his business, and made 
no scruples of declaring her admiration for that excellent, high- 
minded gentleman, and of telling Emmy that she had behaved 
most cruelly regarding him. Emmy defended her conduct, and 
showed that it was dictated only by the purest religious principles ; 



756 VANITY FAIR, 

that a woman once, etc., and to such an angel as him whom she 
had the good fortune to marry, was married forever ; but she had 
no objection to hear the major praised as much as ever Becky 
chose to praise him ; and indeed brought the conversation round 
to the Dobbin subject a score of times every day. 

Means were easily found to win the favor of Georgy and the 
servants. Amelia's maid, it has been said, was heart and soul in 
favor of the generous major. Having at first disliked Becky for 
being the means of dismissing him from the presence of her mis- 
tress, she was reconciled to Mrs. Crawley subsequently, because 
the latter became William's most ardent admirer and champion. 
And in those nightly conclaves in which the two ladies indulged 
after their parties, and while Miss Payne was " brushing their 
'airs," as she called the yellov/ locks of the one, and the soft brown 
tresses of the other, this girl always put in her word for that dear 
good gentleman Major Dobbin. Her advocacy did not make 
Amelia angry any more than Rebecca's admiration of him. She 
made George write to him constantly, and persisted in sending 
mamma's kind love in a postscript. And as she looked at her hus- 
band's portrait of nights, it no longer reproached her — perhaps she 
reproached it, now William was gone. 

Emmy was not very happy after her heroic sacrifice. She was 
very distraite, ner\^ous, silent, and ill to please. The family had 
never known her so peevish. She grew pale and ill. She used to 
try to sing certain songs (" Einsam bin ich nicht alleine," was one 
of them ; that tender love song of Weber's, which, in old-fashioned 
days, young ladies, and when you were scarcely born, showed that 
those who lived before you knew too how to love and to sing) ; — 
certain songs, I say, to which the major was partial ; and as she 
warbled them in the twilight in the drawing-room, she would break 
off in the midst of the song, and walk into her neighboring apart- 
ment, and there, no doubt, take refuge in the miniature of her hus- 
band. 

Some books still subsisted, after Dobbin's departure, with his 
name written in them : a German dictionary, for instance, with 
" William Dobbin, — th reg.," in the fly-leaf ; a guide-book with 
his initials, and one or two other volumes which belonged to the 
major. Emmy cleared these away, and put them on the drawers, 
where she placed her work-box, her desk, her Bible, and prayer- 
book, under the pictures of the two Georges. And the major, on 
going away, having left his gloves behind him, it is a fact that 
Georgy, rummaging his mother's desk some time aften\^ard, found 
the gloves neatly folded up, and put away in what they call the 
secret-drawers of the desk. 

Not caring for society, and moping there a great deal, Emmy's 



BIRTHS, MARRIAGES, AND DEATHS. 757 

chief pleasure in the summer evenings was to take long walks with 
Georgy (during which Rebecca was left to the society of Mr. 
Joseph), and then the mother and son used to talk about the ma- 
jor in a way which even made the boy smile. She told him that 
she thought Major William was the best man in all the world ; the 
gentlest and the kindest, the bravest and the humblest. Over and 
over again she told him how they owed everything which they pos- 
sessed in the world to that kind friend's benevolent care of them ; 
how he had befriended them all through their poverty and misfor- 
tunes ; watched over them when nobody cared for them ; how all 
his comrades admired him though he never spoke of his own gal- 
lant actions ; how Georgy's father trusted him beyond all other 
men, and had been constantly befriended by the good William. 
" Why, when your papa was a little boy," she said, " he often told 
me that it was WiUiam who befriended him against a tyrant at the 
school where they were ; and their friendship never ceased from 
that day until the last, when your dear father fell." 

" Did Dobbin kill the man who killed papa ? " Georgy said. 
" I'm sure he did, or he would if he could have caught him ; wouldn't 
he, mother ? When I'm in the army, won't I hate the French ? — 
that's all." 

In such colloquies the mother and the child passed a great deaf 
of their time together. The artless woman had made a confidant 
of the boy. He was as much William's friend as everybody else 
who knew him well. 

By the way, Mrs. Becky, not to be behind-hand in sentiment, had 
got a miniature to hang up in her room, to the surprise and amuse- 
ment of most people, and the delight of the original, who was no 
other than our friend Jos. On her first coming to favor the Sedleys 
with a visit, the little woman, who had arrived with a remarkably 
small shabby kit, was perhaps ashamed of the meanness of her 
trunks and band-boxes, and often spoke with great respect about 
her baggage left behind at Leipsic, which she must have from the 
city. When a traveler talks to you perpetually about the splendor 
of his luggage, which he does not happen to have with him : my 
son, beware of that traveler ! He is, ten to one, an impostor. 

Neither Jos nor Emmy knew this important maxim. It seemed 
to them of no consequence whether Becky had a quantity of very 
fine clothes in invisible trunks ; but as her present supply was ex- 
ceedingly shabby, Emmy supplied her out of her own stores, or 
took her to the best milliner in the town, and there fitted her out. 

It was no more torn collars now, I promise you, and faded silk 
trailing off at the shoulder. Becky changed her habits with her 
situation in life — the rouge-pot was suspended — another excite- 



758 VANITY FAIR. 

ment to which she had accustomed herself was also put aside, or 
at least only indulged in in privacy ; as when she was prevailed on 
by Jos of a summer evening, Emmy and the boy being absent on 
their walks, to take a little spirit and water. But if she did not 
indulge — the courier did ; that rascal Kirsch could not be kept 
from the bottle ; nor could he tell how much he took when he ap- 
plied to it. He was sometimes surprised himself at the way in 
which Mr. Sedley's cognac diminished. Well, well ; this is a pain- 
ful subject. Becky did not very likely indulge so much as she 
used before she entered a decorous family, 

At last the much-bragged-about boxes arrived from Leipsic ; — 
three of them not b}^ any means large or splendid ; — nor did 
Becky appear to take out any sort of dresses or ornaments from 
the boxes when they did arrive. But out of one which contained 
a mass of her papers (it was that very box which Rawdon Crawley 
had ransacked in his furious hunt for Becky's concealed money),, 
she took a picture with great glee, which she pinned up in her 
room, and to which she introduced Jos. It was the portrait of a 
gentleman in pencil, his face having the advantage of being 
painted up in pink. He was riding on an elephant away from 
some cocoanut-trees, and a pagoda ; it was an Eastern scene. 

" God bless my soul, it is my portrait," Jos cried out. It was 
he indeed, blooming in youth and beauty, in a nankeen jacket of 
the cut of 1804. It was the old picture that used to hang up in 
Russell Square. 

" I bought it," said Becky, in a voice trembling with emotion ; 
" I went to see if I could be of any use to my kind friends. I 
have liever parted with that picture — I never will." 

" Won't you ? " Jos cried, with a look of unutterable rapture and 
satisfaction. " Did you really now value it for my sake .'' " 

" You know I did well enough," said Becky ; " but why speak — 
why think — why look back ! It is too late now ! " 

That evening's conversation was delicious for Jos. Emmy only 
came in to go to bed very tired and unwell. Jos and his fair guest 
had a charming tete-d-tete, and his sister could hear, as she lay 
awake in her adjoining chamber, Rebecca singing over to Jos the 
old songs of 18 15. He did not sleep, for a wonder, that night, 
any more than Amelia. 

It was June, and, by consequence, high season in London ; Jos, 
who read the incomparable GaligJiani (the exile's best friend) 
through every day, used to favor the ladies with extracts from his- 
paper during their breakfast. Every week in this paper there is a 
full account of military movements, in which Jos, as a man who 
had seen service, was especially interested. On one occasion he 
read out : " Arrival of the — th regiment. Gravesend, June 20. 



BIRTHS, MARRIAGES, AND DEATHS. 759 

The Ramchunder, East Indiaman, came into the river this morn- 
ing, having on board 14 officers and 132 rank and file of this gal- 
lant corps. They have been absent from England fourteen years, 
having been embarked the year after Waterloo, m which glorious 
conflict they took an active part, and having subseqmently distin- 
guished themselves in the Burmese war. The veteran colonel. 
Sir Michael O'Dowd, K.C.B., with his lady and sister, landed 
here yesterday, with Captains Posky, Stubble, Macraw, Maloney ; 
Lieutenants Smith, Jones, Thompson, F. Thompson ; Ensigns 
Hicks and Grady ; the band on the pier playing the national an- 
them and the crowd loudly cheering the gallant veterans as they 
went into Wayte's Hotel, where a sumptous banquet was provided 
for the defenders of Old England. During the repast, which we 
need not say was served up in Wayte's best style, the cheering 
continued so enthusiastically that Lady O'Dowd and the colonel 
came forward to the balcony and drank the healths of their fellow- 
countrymen in a bumper of Wayte's best claret." 

On a second occasion Jos read a brief announcement — Major 
Dobbin had joined the — th regiment at Chatham ; and subsequently 
he promulgated accounts of the presentations at the drawing-room 
of Colonel Sir Michael O'Dowd, K.C.B., Lady O'Dowd (by Mrs. 
Molloy Malony of Ballymalony), and Miss Glorvina O'Dowd (by 
Lady O'Dowd). Almost directly after this, Dobbin's name ap- 
peared among the lieutenant-colonels ; for old Marshal Tiptoff had 
died during the passage of the — th from Madras, and the sover- 
eign was pleased to advance Colonel Sir Michael O'Dowd to the 
rank of major-general on his return to England, with an intima- 
tion that he should be colonel of the distinguished regiment which 
he had so long commanded. 

Amelia had been made aware of some gf these movements. 
The correspondence between George and his guardian had not 
ceased by any means ; WiUiam had even written once or twice to 
her since his departure, but in a manner so unconstrainedly cold, 
that the poor woman felt now in her turn that she had lost her 
power over him, and that, as he had said, he was free. He had 
left her and she was wTetched. The memory of his almost count- 
less services, and lofty and affectionate regard, now presented it- 
self to her, and rebuked her day and night. She brooded over 
those recollections according to her w^ont ; saw the purity and 
beauty of the affection with w^hich she had trifled, and reproached 
herself for having flung away such a treasure. 

It was gone indeed. William had spent it all out. He loved 
her no more, he thought, as he had loved her. He never could 
again. That sort of regard, which he had proffered to her for so 
many faithful years, can't be flung down and shattered and mended 



76o VAA^ITY FAIR. 

SO as to show no scars. The little heedless t}Tant had so de- 
stroyed it. No, William thought again and again, " It was myself 
I deluded, and persisted in cajoling ; had she been worthy of the 
love I gave her, she would have returned it long ago. It was a 
fond mistake. Isn't the whole course of life made up of such 1 
and suppose I had won her, should I not have been disenchanted 
the day after my victory ? Why pine or be ashamed of my defeat } " 
The more he thought of this long passage of his life, the more 
clearly he saw his deception. "I'll go into harness again," he 
said, " and do my duty in that state of life in which it has pleased 
heaven to place me. I will see that the buttons of the recruits 
are properly bright, and that the sergeants make no mistakes in 
their accounts. I will dine at mess, and listen to the Scotch sur- 
geon telling his stories. When I am old and broken, I will go on 
half-pay, and my old sisters shall scold me. I have ' geliebt and 
gelebt ' as the girl in Wallenstein says. I am done. Pay the bills 
and get me a cigar ; find out what there is at the play to-night, 
Francis ; to-morrow we cross by the ' Batavier.' " He made the 
above speech, whereof Francis only heard the last two lines, pac- 
ing up and down the Boompjes at Rotterdam. The " Batavier " was 
lying in the basin. He could see the place on the quarter-deck, 
where he and Emmy had sat on the happy voyage out. What had 
that little Mrs. Crawley to say to him .? Psha ; to-morrow we will 
put to sea, and return to England, home, and duty ! 

After June all the little court societ}" of Pumpernickel used to 
separate, according to the German plan, and make for a hundred 
watering-places, where they drank at the wells ; rode upon don- 
keys ; gambled at the redoutes, if they had money and a mind ; 
rushed with hundreds of their kind to gourmandize at the tables 
d^hbte; and idled away the summer. The English diplomatists 
went off to Toeplitz and Kissengen, their French rivals shut up 
their chancellerie and whisked away to their darling Boulevard de 
Gand. The transparent reigning family took to the waters, or re- 
tired to their hunting lodges. Ever}-body went away having any 
pretensions to politeness, and, of course, with them. Doctor von 
Glauber, the court doctor, and his baroness. The season for the 
baths were the most productive periods of the doctor's practice — 
he united business with pleasure, and his chief place of resort was 
Ostend, which is much frequented by Germans, and where the 
doctor treated himself and his spouse to what he called a " dib " 
in the sea. 

His interesting patient, Jos, was a regular milch cow to the doc- 
tor, and he easily persuaded the civilian, both for his own health's 
sake and that of his charming sister, which was really ver}^ much 



BIRTHS, MARRIAGES, AND DEATHS. 761 

shattered, to pass the summer at that hideous sea-port town. Emmy 
did not care where she went much. Georgy jumped at the idea of 
a move. As for Becky, she came as a matter of course in the 
fourth place inside of the fine barouche Mr. Jos had bought ; the 
two domestics being on the box in front. She might have some 
misgivings about the friends whom she should meet at Ostend, 
and who might be likely to tell ugly stories — but bah ! she was 
strong enough to hold her own. She had cast such an anchor 
in Jos now, as would require a strong storm to shake. That inci- 
dent of the picture had finished him. Becky took down her ele- 
phant, and put it into the little box which she had had from 
Amelia ever so many years ago. Emmy also came off with her 
Lares — her two pictures — and the party, finally, were lodged in an 
exceedingly dear and uncomfortable house at Ostend. 

There Amelia began to take baths, and get what good she could 
from them, and though scores of people of Becky's acquaintance 
passed her and cut her, yet Mrs. Osborne, who walked about with 
her, and who knew nobody, was not aware of the treatment ex- 
perienced by the friend whom she had chosen so judiciously as a 
companion ; indeed, Becky never thought fit to tell her what was 
passing under her innocent eyes. 

Some of Mrs. Rawdon Crawley's acquaintances, however, ac- 
knowledged her readily enough — perhaps more readily than she 
would have desired. Among those were Major Loder (unattached), 
and Captain Rook (late of the rifles), who might be seen any day 
on the dyke, smoking and staring at the women, and who speedily 
got an introduction to the hospitable board and select circle of 
Mr. Joseph Sedley. In fact they would take no denial ; they burst 
into the house whether Becky was at home or not, walked into Mrs. 
Osborne's drawing-room, which they perfumed with their coats and 
mustachios, called Jos "old buck," and invaded his dinner-table, 
and laughed and drank for long hours there. 

" What can they mean ? " asked Georg}^, who did not like these 
gentlemen. " I heard the major say to Mrs. Crawley yesterday, 
' No, no, Becky, you shan't keep the old buck to yourself. We 
must have the bones in, or dammy, I'll split.' What could the 
major mean, mamma ? " > 

" Major ! don't call him major ! " Emmy said. " I'm sure I 
can't tell what he meant." His presence and that of his friend 
inspired the little lady with intolerable terror and aversion. They 
paid her tipsy compliments ; they leered at her over the dinner- 
table. And the captain made her advances that filled her with 
sickening dismay, nor would she ever see him unless she had 
George by her side. 

Rebecca, to do her justice, never would let either of these men 



762 VANITY FAIR. 

remain alone with Amelia ; the major was disengaged too, and- 
swore he would be the winner of her. A couple of ruffians were 
fighting for this innocent creature, gambling for her at her own 
table ; and though she was not aware of the rascals' designs 
upon her, yet she felt a horror and uneasiness in their presence, 
and longed to fly. 

She besought, she entreated Jos to go. Not he. He was slow 
of movement, tied to his doctor, and perhaps to some other 
leading-strings. At least Becky was not anxious to go to England. 

At last she took a great resolution — made the great plunge. 
She wrote off a letter to a friend whom she had on the other side 
of the water ; a letter about which she did not speak a word to 
anybody, which she carried herself to the post under her shawl, 
nor was any remark made about it ; only that she looked very 
much flushed and agitated when Georgy met her ; and she kissed 
him, and hung over him a great deal that night. She did not 
come out of her room after her return from her walk. Becky 
thought it was Major Loder and the captain who frightened her. 

" She mustn't stop here,"' Becky reasoned with herself. " She 
must go away, the silly little fool. She is still whimpering after 
that gaby of a husband — dead (and ser^^ed right !) these fifteen 
years. She shan't marr}- either of these men. It's too bad of 
Loder. No ; she shall marry the bamboo-cane, I'll settle it this 
ver}- night." 

So Becky took a cup of tea to Amelia in her private apartment, 
and found that lady in the company of her miniatures, and in a 
most melancholy and ner\'Ous condition. She laid down the 
cup of tea. 

" Thank you," said Amelia. 

" Listen to me, Amelia," said Becky, marching up and down 
the room before the other, and sur\'eying her with a sort of con- 
temptuous kindness. " I want to talk to you. You must go 
away from here and from the impertinences of these men. I 
won't have you harassed by them ; and they will insult you if you 
stay. I tell you they are rascals ; men fit to send to the hulks. 
Never mind how I know them. I know ever}'body. Jos can't 
protect you, he is too weak, and wants a protector himself. You 
are no more fit to live in the world than a baby in arms. You 
must marr}% or you and your precious boy will go to ruin. You 
must have a husband, you fool ; and one of the best gentlemen I 
ever saw has offered you a hundred times, and you have rejected 
him, you silly, heartless, ungrateful little creature ! " 

" I tried — I tried my best, indeed I did, Rebecca," said Amelia, 
deprecatingly, "but I couldn't forget — " and she finished the 
sentence by looking up at the portrait. 




The Letter before Waterloo. 



BIRTHS, MARRIAGES, AND DEATHS. 76^ 

" Couldn't forget /lim /" cried out Becky, " that selfish humbug, 
4iat low-bred cockney dandy, that padded booby, who had neither 
wit, nor manners, nor heart, and was no more to be compared to 
your friend with the bamboo-cane, than you are to Queen 
Elizabeth. Why, the man was wear}- of you, and would have 
jilted you, but that Dobbin forced him to keep his word. He 
owned" it to me. He never cared for you. He used to sneer 
about you to me, time after time ; and made love to me the week 
after he married you." 

" It's false ! it's false ! Rebecca," cried out Amelia, starting up. 

" Look there, you fool," Becky said, still with provoking good 
humor, and taking a little paper out of her belt, she opened it and 
flung it into Emmy's lap. " You know his handwriting. He 
wrote that to me — wanted me to run away with him — gave it me 
under your nose, the day before he was shot — and served him 
right ! " Becky repeated. 

Emmy did not hear her ; she was looking at the letter. It was 
that which George had put into the bouquet and given to Becky 
on the night of the Duchess of Richmond's ball. It was as she 
said ; the foolish young man had asked her to fly. 

Emmy's head sank down, and for almost the last time in which 
she shall be called upon to weep in this histor}", she commenced 
that work. Her head fell to her bosom, and her hands went up 
to her eyes ; and there for awhile she gave way to her emotions, 
as Becky stood on and regarded her. Who shall analyze those 
tears, and say whether they were sweet or bitter ? Was she most 
grieved, because the idol of her life was tumbled down and shiv- 
e-red at her feet, or indignant that her love had been so despised, 
or glad because the barrier was removed which m.odesty had 
placed between her and a new, a real affection } " There is 
nothing to forbid me now," she thought. " I may love him with 
all my heart now. Oh, I will, I will, if he will but let me and for- 
give me." I believe it was this feeling rushed over all the others 
which agitated that gentle little bosom. 

Indeed, she did not cry so much as Becky expected — the other 
soothed and kissed her — a rare mark of s^-mpathy with Mrs. 
Becky. She treated Emmy like a child, and patted her head. 
" And now let us get pen and ink, and write to him to come this 
minute," she said. 

" I — I wrote to him this morning," Emmy said, blushing ex- 
ceedingly. Becky screamed with laughter — " Un biglietto^'' she 
sang out with Rosin a, " eccolo qua ! " — the whole house echoed 
with her shrill singing. 

Two mornings after this little scene, although the dav was 



764 VA XI TV FAIR. 

rainy and gusty, and Amelia had had an exceedingly wakeful 
night, listening to the wind roaring, and pitying all travelers by 
land and by water, yet she got up early, and insisted upon taking 
a walk on the dyke with Georgy ; and there she paced as the rain, 
beat into her face, and she looked out westward across the dark 
sea line, and over the swollen billows which came tumbling and 
frothing to the shore. Neither spoke much, except now and then, 
when the boy said a few words to his timid companion, indicative 
of sympathy and protection. 

" I hope he won't cross in such weather," Emmy said. 

" I bet ten to one he does," the boy answered. " Look, 
mother, there's the smoke of the steamer." It was that signal, 
sure enough. 

But though the steamer was under way, he might not be on 
board ; he might not have got the letter ; he might not choose to 
come. A hundred fears poured one over the other into the little 
heart, as fast as the waves on the dyke. 

The boat followed the smoke into sight. Georgy had a dandy 
telescope, and got the vessel under view in the most skillful man- 
ner. And he made appropriate nautical comments upon the 
manner of the approach of the steamer as she came nearer and 
nearer, dipping and rising in the water. The signal of an English 
steamer in sight went fluttering up to the mast on the pier. I 
dare say Mrs. Amelia's heart was in a similar flutter. 

Emmy tried to look through the telescope over George's 
shoulder, but she could make nothing of it. She only saw a black 
eclipse bobbing up and down before her eyes. 

George took the glass again and raked the vessel. " How she 
does pitch ! " he said. " There goes a wave slap over her bows. 
There's only two people on deck besides the steersman. There's 
a man lying down, and a — chap in a — cloak with a — Hooray ! — 
It's Dob, by Jingo ! " He clapped to the telescope, and flung his 
arms round his mother. As for that lady : let us say what she did 
in the words of a favorite poet — Aaxpvoev yeXacjaffa. She was 
sure it was William. It could be no other. What she had said 
about hoping that he would not come was all hypocrisy. Of 
course he would come ; what could he do else but come .'' She 
knew he would come. 

The ship came swiftly nearer and nearer. As they went in to 
meet her at the landing-place at the quay, Emmy's knees trembled 
so that she scarcely could run. She would have liked to kneel 
down and say her prayers of thanks there. Oh, she thought, she 
would be all her life saying them ! 

It was such a bad day that as the vessel came alongside of the 
quay there were no idlers abroad ; scarcely even a commissioner 



I 




Photo by Byron 



BIRTHS, MARRIAGES, AND DEATHS. 765 

on the look-out for the few passengers in the steamer. That 
young scapegrace George had fled too ; and as the gentleman in 
the old cloak lined with red stuff stepped on to the shore, there 
was scarcely any one present to see what took place, which was 
briefly this : 

A lady in a dripping white bonnet and shawl, with her t^vo little 
hands out before her, went up to him, and in the next minute she 
had altogther disappeared- under the folds of the old cloak, and 
was kissing one of his hands with all her might ; while the other, 
I suppose, wass engaged in holding her to his heart (which her 
head just about reached) and in preventing her from tumbling 
down. She was murmuring something about — forgive — dear 
William — dear, dear, dearest friend — kiss, kiss, kiss, and so forth 
— and in fact, went on under the cloak in an absurd manner. 

When Emmy emerged from it, she still kept tight hold of one of 
W^illiam's hands, and looked up in his face. It was full of sadness 
and tender love and pity. She understood its reproach, and hung 
down her head. 

" It was time you sent for me, dear Amelia," he said. 

" You will never go again, William ? " 

" No, never," he answered ; and pressed the dear little soul once 
more to his heart. As they issued out of the custom-house pre- 
cincts, Georg}' broke out on them, with his telescope up to his eye, 
and a loud laugh of welcome ; he danced- round the couple, and per- 
formed many facetious antics as he led them up to the house. 
Jos wasn't up yet ; Becky not visible (though she looked at them 
through the blinds). Georgy ran off to see about breakfast. Em- 
my, whose shawl and bonnet were off in the passage in the hands 
of Mrs. Payne, now went to undo the clasp of W^illiam's cloak, and 
— we will, if you please, go with George, and look after breakfast 
for the colonel. The vessel is in port. He has got the prize he 
has been trying for all his life. The bird has come in at last. 
There it is with its head on his shoulder, billing and cooing close 
up to his heart, with soft outstretched fluttering wings. This is 
what he has asked for every day and hour for eighteen years. This 
is what he pined after. Here it is — the summit, the end — the last 
page of the third volume. Good-by, colonel — God bless you, honest 
William ! — Farewell, dear Amelia — Grow green again, tender little 
parasite, round the rugged old oak to which you cling. 



Perhaps it was compunction toward the kind and simple creature' 
who had been the first in life to defend her, perhaps it was a dis- 
like to all such sentimental scenes — but Rebecca, satisfied with 



766 VANITY FAIR. 

her part in the transaction, never presented herself before Colonel 
Dobbin and the lady whom he married. " Particular business," she 
Sraid, took her to Bruges, whither she went ; and only Georgy and 
his uncle were present at the marriage ceremony. When it was 
over, ana Georgy had rejoined his parents, Mrs. Becky returned 
(just for a few days) to comfort the solitary bachelor, Joseph Sed- 
Icy- He preferred i continental life, he said, and declined to join 
in h u^ekceping with his sister and her husband. 

Emmy was ver^^ glad in her heart to think that she had written 
to her husband before she read or knew of that letter of George's. 
" I knew it all along," William said ; " but could I use that weapon 
against the poor fellow's memory .? It was that which made me suf- 
fer so when you — " 

" Never speak of that day again," Emmy cried out, so contrite 
and humble, that William turned off the conversation, by his ac- 
count of Glorvina and dear old Peggy O'Dowd, with whom he was 
sitting when the letter of recall reached him. " If you hadn't sent 
for me," he added with a laugh, " who knows what Glorvina's name 
might be now ? " 

At present it is Glorvina Posky (now Mrs. Major Posky), she 
took him on the death of his first wife, having resolved never to 
marry out of the regiment. Lady O'Dowd is also so attached to 
it that, she says, if anything were to happen to Mick, bedad she'd 
come back and marry some of 'em. But the major-general is quite 
well, and lives in great splendor at O'Dowdstown, with a pack of 
beagles, and (with the exception of perhaps their neighbor, Hog- 
garty of Castle Hoggart}^) he is the first man of his county. Her 
ladyship still dances jigs, and insisted on standing up with the mas- 
ter of the horse at the lord lieutenant's last ball. Both she and 
Glor\dna declared that Dobbin had used the latter sheamfuily, but 
Posky falling in, Glorvina was consoled, and a beautiful turban 
from Paris appeased the wrath of Lady O'Dowd. 

When Colonel Dobbin quitted the service, which he did immedi- 
ately after his marriage, he rented a pretty little country place in 
Hampshire, not far from Queen's Crawley, where, after the passing 
of the reform bill. Sir Pitt and his family constantly resided now. 
AH idea of a peerage was out of the question, the baronet's two seats 
in parliament being lost. He was both out of pocket and out of 
spirits by that catastrophe, failed in his health, and prophesied the 
speedy ruin of the empire. 

Lady Jane and Mrs. Dobbin became great friends — there was a 
perpetual crossing of pony-chaises between the hall and the Ever- 
greens, the colonel's place (rented of his friend Major Ponto, who 
was abroad with his family). Her ladyship was godmother to Mrs. 
Dobbin's child, which bore her name, and was christened by the 



BIRTHS, MARRIAGES, AND DEATHS. 767 

Rev. James Crawley, who succeeded his father in the living ; and a 
pretty close friendship subsisted between the two lads, George and 
Rawdon, who hunted and shot together in the vacations, were both 
entered of the same college at Cambridge, and quarreled with 
each other about Lady Jane's daughter, with whom they were both, 
of course, in love. A match between George and that young lady 
was long a favorite scheme of both the matrons, though I have heard 
that Miss Crawley herself inclined toward her cousin. 

Mrs. Rawdon Crawley's name was never mentioned by either 
family. There were reasons why all should be silent regarding 
her. For wherever Mr. Joseph Sedley went, she traveled likewise ; 
and that infatuated man seemed to be entirely her slave. The colo- 
nel's lawyers informed him that his brother-in-law had effected a 
heavy insurance upon his life, whence it was probable that he had 
been raising money to discharge debts. He procured prolonged 
leave of absence from the East India House, and indeed his infir- 
mities were daily increasing. 

On hearing the news about the insurance, Amelia, in a good deal 
of alarm, entreated her husband to go to Brussels, where Jos then 
was, and inquire into the state of his affairs. The colonel quitted 
home with reluctance (for he was deeply immersed in his " History 
of the Punjaub," which still occupies him, and much alarmed about 
his little daughter, whom he idolizes, and who was just recovering 
from the chicken-pox) and went to Brussels and found Jos living at 
one of the enormous hotels in that city. Mrs. Crawley, who had 
her carriage, gave entertainments, and lived in a very genteel man- 
ner, occupied another suite of apartments in the same hotel. 

The colonel, of course, did not desire to see that lady, or even 
think proper to notify his arrival at Brussels, except privately to 
Jos by a message through his valet. Jos begged the colonel to 
come and see him that night, when Mrs. Crawley would be at a 
soiree, and when they could meet alone. He found his brother-in- 
law in a condition of pitiable infirmity ; and dreadfully afraid of Re- 
becca, though eager in his praises of her. She tended him through 
a series of unheard-of illnesses, with a fidelity most admirable. 
She had been a daughter to him. " But — but — oh, for God's sake, 
do come and live near me, and — and — see me sometimes," whim- 
pered out the unfortunate man. The colonel's brow darkened at 
this. " We can't, Jos," he said. " Considering the circumstance, 
Amelia can't visit you." 

" I swear to you — I swear to you on the Bible," gasped out Joseph, 
wanting to kiss the book, " that she is as innocent as a child, as 
spotless as your own wife." 

" It may be so," said the colonel, gloomily ; " but Emmy can't 
come to you. P'^ ^ ^an, Jos ; break off this disreputable connec- 



BIRTHS, MARRIAGES, AND DEATHS. f^^ 

tion. Come home to your family. We hear your affairs are in- 
volved." 

" Involved ! " cried Jos. " Who has told such calumnies t All 
my money is placed out most advantageously. Mrs. Crawley — 
that is — I mean — it is laid out to the best interest." 

" You are not in debt, then ? Why did you insure your life ? " 

" I thought — a little present to her — in case anything happened ; 
and you know my health is so delicate — common gratitude you 
l^now — and I intend to leave all my money to you — and I can 
spare it out of my income, indeed I can," cried out William's weak 
brother-in-law. 

The colonel besought Jos to fly at once — to go back to India, 
whither Mrs. Crawley could not follow him ; to do anything to 
break off a connection which might have the most fatal conse- 
quences to him. 

Jos clasped his hands, and cried. " He would go back to India. 
He would do anything ; only he must have time ; they mustn't say 
anything to Mrs. Crawley; — she'd — she'd kill me if she knew it. 
You don't know what a terrible woman she is," the poor wretch 
said. 

" Then, why not come away with me ? " said Dobbin, in reply ; 
but Jos had not the courage. " He would see Dobbin again in the 
morning ; he must on no account say that he had been there. ■ He 
must go now. Becky might come in." And Dobbin quitted him 
full of forebodings. 

He never saw Jos more. Three months afterward Joseph Sed- 
ley died at Aix-la-Chapelle. It was found that all his property had 
been muddled away in speculations, and was represented by value- 
less shares in different bubble companies. All his available assets 
were the two thousand pounds for which his life was insured, and 
which were left equally between his beloved " sister Amelia, wife 
of, etc., and his friend and invaluable attendant during sickness, 
Rebecca, wife of Lieutenant-Colonel Rawdon Crawley, C.B.," who 
was appointed administratrix. 

The solicitor of the insurance company swore it was the black- 
est case that ever had come before him ; talked of sending a com- 
mission to Aix to examine into the death, and the company refused 
payment of the policy. But Mrs., or Lady Crawley as she styled 
herself, came to town at once (attended with her soHcitors, Messrs. 
Burke, Thurtell, and Hayes, of Thavies Inn), and dared the com- 
pany to refuse the payment. They invited examination, they de- 
clared that she was the object of an infamous conspiracy, which 
had been pursuing her all through life, and triumphed finally. The 
money was paid, and her character estabUshed, but Colonel Dob- 

49 



770 VANITY FAIR. 

bin sent back his share of the legacy to the insurance office, and 
rigidly declined to hold any communication with Rebecca. 

She never was Lady Crawley, though she continued so to call 
herself. His Excellency Colonel Rawdon Crawley died of yellow 
fever at Coventry Island, most deeply beloved and deplored, and 
six weeks before the demise of his brother. Sir Pitt. The estate 
consequently devolved upon the present Sir Rawdon Crawley, Bart. 

He, too, has dechned to see his mother, to whom he makes a 
liberal allowance ; and who, besides, appears to be very wealthy. 
The baronet lives entirely at Queen's Crawley, with Lady Jane and 
her daughter ; while Rebecca, Lady Crawley, chiefly hangs about 
Bath and Cheltenham, where a very strong party of excellent people 
consider her to be a most injured woman. She has her enemies. 
Who has not "i Her life is her answer to them. She busies herself 
in works of piety. . She goes to church, and never without a foot- 
man. Her name is in all the charity lists. The destitute orange- 
girl, the neglected washerwoman, the distressed muffin-man, find 
in her a fast and generous friend. She is always having stalls at 
fancy fairs for the benefit of these hapless beings. Emmy, her 
children, and the colonel coming to London some time back, found 
themselves suddenly before her at one of these fairs. She cast 
down her eyes demurely and smiled as they started away from her ; 
Emmy skurrj^ing off on the arm of George (now grown a dashing 
young gentleman) and the colonel seizing up his little Janey, of 
whom he is fonder than of anything in the world — ^fonder even than 
ot his " History of the Punjaub." 

" Fonder than he is of me," Emmy thinks with a sigh. But he 
never said a word to Amelia that was not kind and gentle ; or 
thought of a want of hers that he did not try to gratify. 

Ah ! Vanitac Vanitatum ! which of us is happy in this world ? 
Which of us has his desire ? or, having it, is satisfied ? — come, child- 
ren, let us shut up the box and the puppets, for our play is played 
out. 



THE END. 



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